<* 



^ ^ 



S -Tj 



















^%, 





.-' , 












I 8 , 






- 






F°« 



n H -t A 



1 \ > Cy <x ^ 







o 



<, " * o . i 













?°* 







s -nt 



5 N ° 















^ ■** 



























o N 










/' 






v 









V c 



^ v^ 



7 C . 



LEGENDS 



OF 



LOYE AND CHIVALRY. 



Unigljto of (Bnglnnb, jfmtt, uno Irotlono. 



THE 



KNIGHTS 



ENGLAND, FRANCE, 



SCOTLAND. 



BY 

HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, 

AUTHOR OF " THE CAVALIERS OF ENGLAND" — " THE ROMAN TRAITOR" — " CROMWELL, 
" THE BROTHERS" — ' CAPTAINS OF- THE OLD WORLD," ETC. 





REDFIELD, 

CLINTON HALL, NEW YORK. 
1852. 



1)** 
*« 



r 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, 

By J. S. REDF1ELD, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Southern 



District of New York. 



STEREOTYPED BY C. C. 9AVAGE, 
13 Chambers Street, N. Y. 



CONTENTS 



Legends of the Norman Conquerors page 7 

The Saxon's Oath 9 

The Norman's Vengeance 22 

The Faith of Woman 37 

The Erring Arrow 45 

The Saxon Prelate's Doom : 61 

The Fate of the Blanche Navire 73 

The Saxon's Bridal 85 

Legends of the Crusaders S9 

The Syrian Lady 101 

The Templar's Trials v 115 

The Renegado 123 

Legends of Feudal Days 143 

The False Ladye 145 

The Vassal's Wife 177 

True Love's Devotion 221 

Legends of Scotland.. 303 

Passages in the Life of Mary Stuart 305 

Chastelar 305 

Rizzio 323 

The Kirk of Field 337 

Bothwell 351 

The Captivity 364 

The Closing Scene 378 

Elizabeth's Remorse 393 

The Moorish Father ' 407 



f 



LEGENDS 



OF 



THE NORMAN CONQUERORS. 



THE SAXON'S OATH. 



" My tongue hath sworn, but still my mind is free." 

The son of Godwin was the flower of the whole Saxon race. 
The jealousies which had disturbed the mind of Edward the 
Confessor had long since passed away ; and Harold, whom he 
once had looked upon with eyes of personal aversion, he now 
regarded almost as his own son. Yet still the Saxon hostages 
— Ulfnoth, and the young son of Swerga, who in the time of 
his mad predilection for the Normans, and his unnatural dis- 
trust of his own countrymen, had been delivered for safe keep- 
ing to William, duke of Normandy — still lingered, melancholy 
exiles, far from the white cliffs of their native land. And now, 
for the first time since their departure, did the aspect of affairs 
appear propitious for their liberation ; and Harold, brother of 
one, and uncle of the other, full of proud confidence in his own 
intellect and valor, applied to Edward for permission that he 
might cross the English channel, and, personally visiting the 
Norman, bring back the hostages in honor and security to the 
dear land of their forefathers. The countenance of the Confes- 
sor fell at the request ; and, conscious probably in his own 
heart of some rash promise made in days long past, and long 
repented, to the ambitious William, he manifested a degree of 
agitation amounting almost to alarm. 

1* 



10 THE SAXON'S OATH. 

" Harold," he said, after a long pause of deliberation — " Har- 
old, my son, since you have made me this request, and that 
your noble heart seems set on its accomplishment, it shall not 
be my part to do constraint or violence to your affectionate and 
patriotic wishes. Go, then, if such be your resolve", but go 
without my leave, and contrary to my advice. It is not that I 
would not have your brother and your kinsman home, but that 
I do distrust the means of their deliverance ; and sure I am, 
that should you go in person, some terrible disaster shall befall 
ourselves and this our country. Well do I know Duke Wil- 
liam ; well do I know his spirit — brave, crafty, daring, deep, 
ambitious, and designing. You, too, he hates especially, nor 
will he grant you anything, save at a price that shall draw down 
an overwhelming ruin on you who pay it, and on the throne of 
which you are the glory and the stay. If we would have these 
hostages delivered at a less ransom than the downfall of our 
Saxon dynasty — the misery of merry England — another mes- 
senger than thou must seek the wily Norman. Be it, however, 
as thou wilt, my friend, my kinsman, and my son." 

Oh, sage advice, and admirable counsel ! advice how fatally 
neglected — counsel how sadly frustrated ! Gallant, and brave, 
and young ; fraught with a noble sense of his own powers, a 
full reliance on his own honorable purposes ; untaught as yet 
in that, the hardest lesson of the world's hardest school, distrust 
of others, suspicion of all men — Harold set forth upon his jour- 
ney, as it were, on an excursion in pursuit of pleasure. Sur- 
rounded by a train of blithe companions, gallantly mounted, 
gorgeously attired, with falcon upon fist, and greyhounds bound- 
ing by his side, gayly and merrily he started, on a serene au- 
tumnal morning, for the coast of Sussex. There he took ship ; 
and scarcely was he out of sight of land, when, as it were at 
once to justify the words of Edward, the wind, which had been 
on his embarkation the fairest that could blow from heaven, 



HAROLD A PRISONER. 11 

suddenly shifted round, the sky was overcast with vast clouds 
of a leaden hue, the waves tossed wildly with an ominous and 
hollow murmur ; and, ere the first day had elapsed, as fierce a 
tempest burst upon his laboring barks as ever baffled mariner 
among the perilous shoals and sandbanks of the narrow seas. 
Hopeless almost of safety, worn out with unaccustomed toil 
and hard privations, for three days and as many nights they 
battled with the stormy waters ; and on the morning of the 
fourth, when the skies lightened, and the abating violence of 
the strong gales allowed them to put in, and come to anchor, 
where the Somme pours its noble stream into the deep, through 
the rich territories of the count of Ponthieu, they were at once 
made prisoners, robbed of their personal effects, held to a heavy 
ransom, and cast as prisoners-of-war into the dungeon-walls of 
Belram, to languish there until the avarice of the count Guy 
should be appeased with gold. 

Still Harold bore a high heart and a proud demeanor, beard- 
ing the robber-count even to his teeth, set him at defiance, pro- 
claiming himself an embassador from England to the duke of 
Normandy, and claiming as a right the means of making known 
to William his unfortunate condition. This, deeming it per- 
chance his interest so to do, the count at once conceded ; and 
before many days had passed, Harold might see, from the 
barred windows of his turret-prison, a gallant band of lancers, 
arrayed beneath the Norman banner, with a pursuivant and 
trumpet at their head, wheeling around the walls of the grim 
fortress. A haughty summons followed, denouncing " the ex- 
tremities of fire and of the sword against the count de Ponthieu, 
his friends, dependants, and allies, should he not instantly set 
free, with all his goods and chattels, his baggage and his horses, 
friends, followers, and slaves, unransomed with all honor, Har- 
old, the son of Godwin, the friend and host of William, high 
and puissant duke of Normandy !" Little, however, did mere 



12 

menaces avail with the proud count de Ponthieu ; nor did the 
Saxon prince obtain his liberty till William had paid down a 
mighty sum of silver, and invested Guy with a magnificent de- 
mesne on the rich meadows of the Eaune. 

Then once more did the son of Godwin ride forth a freeman, 
in the bright light of heaven, escorted — such were the strange 
anomalies of those old times — by a superb array of lances, fur- 
nished for his defence by the same count de Ponthieu, who, 
having held him in vile durance until his object was obtained, 
as soon as he was liberated on full payment of the stipulated 
price, had thenceforth treated him as a much-honored guest, 
holding his stirrup at his castle-gate when he departed, and 
sending a strong guard of honor to see him in all safety over 
the frontier of the duke's demesne. Here, at the frontier town, 
William's high senechal attended his arrival ; and gay and glo- 
rious was his progress through the rich fields of Normandy, 
until he reached Rouen. The glorious chase — whether by the 
green margin of some brimful river they roused the hermit- 
tyrant of the waters, that noblest of the birds of chase, to make 
sport for their long-winged falcons, or through the sere trees 
of the forest pursued the stag or felon wolf with horn, hound, 
and halloo — diversified the tedium of the journey; while 
every night some feudal castle threw wide its hospitable gates 
to greet with revelry and banqueting the guest of the grand 
duke. Arrived at Rouen, that powerful prince himself, the 
mightiest warrior of the day, rode forth beyond the gates to 
meet the Saxon ; nor did two brothers long estranged meet ever 
with more cordiality of outward show than these, the chiefs of 
nations long destined to be rival and antagonistic, till from their 
union should arise the mightiest, the wisest, the most victori- 
ous, and enlightened, and free race of men, that ever peopled 
empires, or spread their language and their laws through an 
admiring world. On that first meeting, as he embraced his 



PASSAGES OF NORMAN CHIVALRY. 13 

guest, the princely Norman announced to him that his young 
brother and his nephew were thenceforth at his absolute dis- 
posal. 

"The hostages are yours," he said — "yours, at your sole 
request ; nor would I be less blithe to render them, if Harold 
stood before me himself a landless exile, than as I see him 
now, the first lord of a powerful kingdom, the most trusty mes- 
senger of a right noble king. But, of your courtesy, I pray you 
leave us not yet awhile ; though if you will do so, my troops 
shall convey you to the seashore, my ships shall bear you home ! 
—but, I beseech, do this honor to your host, to tarry with him 
for a little space : and as you be the first — for so you are re- 
ported to us — in all realities and sports of Saxon warfare, so 
let us prove your prowess, and witness you our skill, in pas- 
sages of Norman chivalry." 

In answer to this fair request, what could the Saxon do but 
acquiesce ? Yet, even as he did so, the words of the gray- 
headed king came sensibly upon his memory, and he began to 
feel as if in truth the net of the deceiver were already round 
about him with its inevitable meshes. Still, having once as- 
sented, nothing remained for him but to fulfil, as gracefully as 
possible, his half-unwilling promise. So joyously, however, 
were the days consumed — so gayly did the evenings pass, 
among festivities far more refined and delicate than were the 
rude feasts of the sturdy Saxons, wherein excess of drink and 
vulgar riot composed the chief attractions — that, after one short 
week had flown, all the anxieties and fears of Harold were lost 
in admiration of the polished manners of his Norman hosts, and 
the high qualities of his chief entertainer. From town to town 
they passed in gay cortege, visiting castle after castle in their 
route, and ever and anon testing the valor and the skill each of 
the other, in those superb encounters of mock warfare — the 
free and gentle passage of arms — which in the education of 



14 

the warlike Normans were second only to the real shock of 
battle, which was to them, not metaphorically, the very breath 
of life. 

Nor in these jousts and tournaments, whether with headless 
lance or blunted broadsword, or in the deadlier though still ami- 
cable strife at outrance, did not the Saxon, though unused to the 
menege of the destrier and equestrian combat with the lance, 
win high renown and credit with his martial hosts. The Saxon 
tribes had, from their earliest existence as a people, been famed 
as infantry ; their arms, a huge and massive axe ; a short, sharp, 
two-edged sword, framed like the all-victorious weapon of the 
Romans ; a target, and ponderous javelin, used ever as a missile. 
Cavalry, properly so called, although their leaders sometimes 
rode into the conflict, they had none ; and by a natural conse- 
quence, one of that people for the first time adopting the com- 
plete panoply, mounting the barbed war-horse, and tilting with 
the long lance of the Gallic chivalry, must have engaged with 
the practised champions of the time at a fearful disadvantage. 
Still, even at this odds, such was the force of emulation acting 
upon a spirit elastic, vigorous, and fiery, backed by a powerful 
and agile frame, inured to feats of strength and daring, that little 
time elapsed ere Harold could abide the brunt of the best lance 
of William's court, not only without the risk of reputation, but 
often at advantage. After a long and desperate encounter, 
wherein the Saxon prince had foiled all comers, hurling three 
cavaliers to earth with one unsplintered lance, William, in ad- 
miration of his bravery, insisted on bestowing on his friend, 
with his own honored blade, the accolade of knighthood — 
buckled the gilded spurs upon his heels ; presented him with 
the complete apparel of a knight — the lance, with its appropri- 
ate bandrol — the huge, two-handed war-sword ; and, above all, 
the finest charger of his royal stables, which, constantly sup- 
plied from the best blood of Andalusia, at that time were esteemed 



THE WILY NORMAN'S DAUGHTER. 15 

the choicest stud in Europe. It may now be supposed that 
honors such as these, coming too from a Norman, for the most 
part esteemed the scorner of the Saxon race — nor this alone, 
bfit from the most renowned and famous warrior of the day — . 
produced a powerful effect on the enthusiastic and ambitious 
spirit of the young Englishman ; nor did the wily duke fail to 
observe the operation of his deep-laid manoeuvres, nor, when 
observed, did he neglect by every means to strengthen the im- 
pression he had made. To this end, therefore, not courtesies 
alone, nor the high-prized distinctions of military honor, nor 
gorgeous gifts, nor personal deference, were deemed sufficient 
instruments. To finish what he had himself so well begun, to 
complete the ensnarement of the Saxon's senses, the aid of 
woman was called in — woman, all-powerful, perilous, fascina- 
ting woman ! Nor did he lack a fair and willing bait wherewith 
to give his prize. In his own court, filled as it was with the 
most lovely, or at least — thanks to the prowess of the Norman 
spear — the most renowned of Europe's ladies, there was not 
one that could compete in beauty, wit, or grace, with Alice, his 
bright daughter. Too keen a player with the passions and the 
characters of men — too wise a judge of that most wondrous 
compound, that strange mass of inconsistencies, of evil and of 
good, of honor and deceit, the human heart — too close a calcu- 
lator of effects and causes, was William, to divulge his purpose, 
or to hint his wishes, even to the obedient ear of Alice. He 
cared not — he — whether she loved, or feigned to love, so that 
his object was effected. Commanding ever his wildest pas- 
sions, using them but as instruments and tools to bend or break 
men to his purposes, he never dreamed or recked of their un- 
governable force upon the minds of others. It was but a few 
days after the arrival of his guest, that he discovered how he 
gazed after, and with signs of evident and earnest admiration, 
on the young damsel, to whose intimacy he had been studiously 



16 

admitted as an especial and much-honored friend of his host : 
and her father, to fan this flame on Harold's part, it needed 
little art from so consummate an intriguer as the duke ; while 
as to Alice, young as she was, and thoughtless, delighted with 
attention, and attracted by the fine form and high repute of the 
young stranger, and yet more by the raciness and trifling sin- 
gularities of his foreign though high-bred deportment — a fond, 
paternal smile, and an approving glance, as she toyed with her 
young admirer, sufficed to give full scope to her vivacious in- 
clinations. 

Daily the Norman's game became more intricate, daily more 
certain ; when suddenly, just as the Saxon — flattered and half- 
enamored as he was, began to feel that he had no excuse for 
lingering longer at a distance from his country and his sover- 
eign — began to speak of a return before the setting-in of win- 
ter, an accident occurred, which, with his wonted readiness of 
wit, William turned instantly to good account. 

The ducal territories, which had descended to the Norman 
line from their first champion, Rollo, were separated by the 
small stream of Coesnor from the neighboring tract of Brittany, 
to which all the succeeding princes had possessed a claim 
since Charles the Simple, in the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte, 
had ceded it to that great duke, the founder of the Norman dy- 
nasty. The consequence of this pretence — for such in fact it 
was — were endless bickerings, small border wars, aggressions 
and reprisals, burnings, and massacres, and vengeance ! Some 
trivial skirmish had occurred upon this frontier, just as the 
duke had perceived that he must either suffer Harold to depart 
before his projects were accomplished, or force him to remain 
by open violence. In such a crisis he resolved at once upon 
his line of action ; and, instantly proclaiming Avar, he raised the 
banner of his dukedom, summoned his vassals, great and small, 
to render service for their military tenures ; and in announcing 



THE BORDER WAR. 17 

to his guest his march against the forces of his hereditary foe, 
claimed his assistance in the field as a true host from his well- 
proved guest, and a godfather-in-arms from the son whom he 
had admitted to the distinguished honor of the knightly acco- 
lade. Intoxicated with ambition and with love, madly desi- 
rous of acquiring fame among the martial Normans, and fancy- 
ing, with a vanity not wholly inexcusable, that he was doing 
service to his country in acquiring the respect of foreign pow- 
ers, he met half-way the proffer. And, in the parlance of the 
day, right nobly did he prove his gilded spurs of knighthood. 
In passing the Coesnor, which, like the See, the Seluna, and 
the other streams that cross the great Greve of St. Michel, is 
perilous from its spring-tide and awful quicksands, Harold dis- 
played, in recovering several soldiers, who, having quitted the 
true line of march, were on the point of perishing, a noble 
union of intrepidity and strength. 

During the whole course of the war, the Norman and his 
guest had but one tent and one table ; side by side in the front 
of war they charged the enemy, and side by side they rode 
upon the march, beguiling the fatigue and labor with gay jests 
or graver conversation : and now so intimate had they become, 
so perfect was the confidence reposed by the frank Englishman 
in his frank-seeming friend, that the sagacious tempter felt the 
game absolutely in his power, and waited but a fitting opportu- 
nity for aiming his last blow. Nor was it long ere the occa- 
sion he had sought, occurred. Some brilliant exploits, per- 
formed in the last skirmish of the campaign, by the intended 
victim of his perfidy, gave him a chance to descant on the na- 
tional and well-proved hardihood and valor of this Saxon race. 
Thence, by a stroke of masterly and well-timed tact, he touched 
upon the beauties, the fertility, the noble forests, and the rich 
fields of England — the happy days which he had passed amid 
the hospitalities of that fair island. The praises of the reign- 



18 THE SAXON'S OATH. 

ing monarch followed, a topic wherein Harold freely and eagerly 
united with his host. 

" You were but young in those days," William continued, 
" and scarce, I trow, can recollect the scenes which to my 
older memory are but as things of yesterday. Then, then, in- 
deed, our races were at variance, and your good sire — peace 
to his soul ! — worked me and mine sore scathe and trouble. 
Yet was it natural, most natural ! For in those times your ex- 
cellent and venerable king — long may he sway the sceptre he 
so honors ! — lived with me upon terms of the most close and 
cordial friendship. Ay, in good sooth, we were as two broth- 
ers — living beneath the same roof, eatmg of the same board, 
and drinking from one cup ! Not thou and I, my Harold, are 
more sure comrades. Ay! and he promised me — this in thy 
private ear — if ever he should gain the throne of England, to 
leave me by his will, in default of his own issue, heir to that 
noble kingdom. I doubt not of his troth nor loyalty, though 
it is years since we spoke of it. You have more lately been 
about him : hast ever heard him speak of it ? What thinkest 
thou of his plighted faith ? He is not one, I do believe, to 
register a vow in heaven, and fall from it !" 

Taken thus by surprise, annoyed and much embarrassed by 
the turn their converse had thus taken, Harold turned pale, and 
actually stammered, as he made reply : — 

" He never had presumed to question his liege lord and king 
on matters of such import. The king had never dropped the 
slightest hint to him concerning the succession. If he had 
sworn, doubtless he would perform his oath : he was famed, 
the world over, for his strict sanctity ; how, then, should he be 
perjured? He doubted not, had he so promised, the duke 
would have no reason to complain of any breach of faith in 
good King Edward's testament." 

" Ay ! it is so," said William, musingly, as it appeared to 



s THE EVASIVE PROMISE. 19 

Harold, although in truth his every word had been premedi- 
tated long before. " I had so hoped it would be ; and, by my 
faith, right glad am I that you confirm me in mine aspirations. 
By your aid, my good friend — with the best Saxon on my side 
— all else is certain ; and by my faith, whatever you shall ask 
of me, were it my daughter's hand in marriage, surely it shall 
be yours when I am king of England !" 

Again the words of the Confessor flashed on the mind of the 
ill-fated Saxon, and he foresaw at once the terrible result of 
this unwilling confidence. At the same time he saw no means 
of present extrication, and, with an air of evident embarrass- 
ment, he answered in words half-evasive, yet sufficiently con- 
clusive, as he hoped, to stop, for the time being, the unpleasing 
topic. But this was far from the intent of William, who, hav- 
ing read with an intuitive and almost supernatural sagacity the 
thought that flashed across the brain of Harold, determined that 
he should commit himself in terms decisive, and admitting of 
no dubious explanation. Taking it, then, for granted that he 
had replied fully in the affirmative — 

" Since, then," he said, " you do engage so loyally to serve 
me, you shall engage to fortify for me the castle on the heights 
of Dover ; to dig in it good wells of living water ; and, at my 
summons, to surrender it ! You shall give me your sister, that 
she may be espoused unto the noblest of my barons ; and you 
shall have to wife my daughter Alice : some passages, I trow, 
have gone between ye ere now. Moreover, as a warrant of 
your faith, your brother Ulfnoth shall yet tarry with me ; and 
when I come to England to possess my crown, then will I yield 
him to you !" 

In all its force, the madness of his conduct now glared upon 
the very soul of Harold. He saw the guilt he had iucurred 
already ; the peril he had brought upon the kinsmen he had 
come to save ; the wo that might result to his loved country ! 



20 

But, seeing this, he saw no better means than to feign acquies- 
cence with this unworthy project, holding himself at liberty to 
break thereafter an unwilling promise. 

No more was said upon the subject. They rode onward as 
before, but the light-hearted pleasure of the Saxon was de- 
stroyed ; and though the great duke feigned not to perceive the 
changed mood of his comrade, he had resolved already that he 
should yet more publicly commit himself ere he should leave 
the realm. 

At Avranches, but three days after their discourse, William 
convoked a grand assembly of his lords and barons — the might- 
iest and the noblest of his vavasours and vassals — the pride 
of Normandy. There, in the centre of the hall, he caused an 
immense chest to be deposited, filled to the very brim with the 
most holy relics — bones of the martyred saints — fragments of 
the true cross — all that was deemed most sacred and most 
awful by the true-hearted catholic — and covered with a superb 
cloth of gold, as though it were an ordinary slab or table. 
There, seated in high state, upon his chair of dignity — a drawn 
sword in his hand, wearing his cap of maintenance, circled by 
fleurs-de-lis, upon his head, and clad in ermined robes of state — 
he held cour pleusere of his nobles. The Saxon stood among 
them, honored among the first at all times, and now the more 
especially distinguished, that it was his farewell reception pre- 
vious to his departure for England. After presenting him with 
the most splendid gifts, and making the most liberal professions 
of attachment, " Harold," exclaimed the duke, " before we part, 
I call on you, before this noble company, here to confirm by 
oath your promise made to me three days since, ' to aid me in 
obtaining, after the death of Edward, the throne and crown of 
England ; to take my daughter Alice to wife ; and to send me 
your sister hither, that I may find for her a princely spouse 
among my vavasours !" 



harold's return to England. 21 

Taken a second time at fault, and daring not thus openly to 
falsify his word — but with a blank and troubled aspect, unsat- 
isfied with his internal reservation, and conscious of his per- 
jury — Harold laid both his hands on two small reliquaries 
which lay, as if by chance, upon the cloth of gold ; and swore, 
provided he should live, to make good all those promises — 
" so might God aid him." And with one deep, solemn accla- 
mation, the whole assembly echoed those last words : " So 
may God aid him ! may God aid ! God aid !" At the same in- 
stant, on a signal from the duke, the cloth of gold was drawn 
aside, and Harold saw the sacrilege he must commit, so deeply 
sworn on things so holy, should he repent, or falsify his oath ! 
He saw, and shuddered visibly, as though he had been stricken 
by an ague ; yet presently, by a powerful effort, rallying all his 
courage to his aid, he made his last farewells, departed, loaded 
with gifts and honors, but with a melancholy heart ; and sailed 
immediately for England, leaving the brother, for whose liberty 
he came a suitor, ten times more deeply forfeit than he had 
been before. On his first interview with Edward, he related 
all that had occurred — even his own involuntary oath. And 
the old sovereign trembled, and grew pale, but manifested noth- 
ing of surprise or anger ! 

" I knew it," he replied, in calm but hollow tones ; " I knew 
it, and I did forewarn you, how that your visit to the Norman 
should bring misery on you, and ruin on our country ! As I 
forewarned you, so has it come to pass ! So shall it come to 
pass hereafter, till all hath been fulfilled : God only grant that 
I live not to see it !" 



THE NORMAN'S VENGEANCE. 



" God and good angels fight on William's side, 
And Harold fall in height of all his pride." — Shakspere. 

Edward the Confessor was dead ; and dying, had be- 
queathed the crown of merry England to Harold, son of God- 
win, destined, alas! to be the last prince of the Saxon race who 
should possess the throne of the fair island. The oath which 
he had sworn to William, duke of Normandy, engaging to 
assist him in obtaining that same realm, which had now fallen 
to himself, alike by testament of the late king, and by election 
of the people, dwelt not in the new monarch's bosom ! Selfish- 
ness and ambition, aided, perhaps, and strengthened by the 
suggestions of a sincere patriotism, that whispered to his soul 
the baseness of surrendering his countrymen, their lives, their 
liberties, their fortunes, and his loved native land, into the stern 
hands of a foreign ruler, determined him to brave the worst, 
rather than keep the oath, which, with its wonted sophistry, 
self-interest was ready to represent involuntary and of no avail. 
Not long, however, was he allowed to flatter himself with 
hopes that the tempest, excited by his own weak duplicity, 
might possibly blow over. The storm-clouds were already 
charged with thunder destined to burst almost at once on his 
devoted head. The cry of warfare had gone forth through 
Christendom ; the pope had launched the dreadful bolt of inter- 



the norman's herald. 23 

diet and excommunication against the perjured Saxon, and all 
who should adhere to him in his extremity ; nay, more, had 
actually granted to the Norman duke, by virtue of his holy 
office as God's vicegerent and dispenser of all dignities on 
earth, the sovereignty of the disputed islands. In token of his 
perfect approbation of the justice of his cause, the Roman pon- 
tiff had sent, moreover, to the duke, a ring of gold, containing 
an inestimable relic, a lock of hair from the thrice-mitred tem- 
ples of St. Peter, the first Roman bishop ; a consecrated banner 
blest by himself — the same which had been reared, in token 
of the greatness and supremacy of holy church, by those bold 
Normans, Raoul and William of Montreuil, above the captured 
battlements of every tower and castle through the bright king- 
dom of Campania. Thus doubly armed, once by the justice 
of his cause, and yet more strongly by the sanction of the 
church, the bold duke hesitated not to strive by force of arms 
to gain that rich inheritance, which he had hoped to win by 
the more easy agency of guile and of persuasion. 

A herald, sent with a most noble train, bore William's terms 
to the new monarch. " William, the duke of Normandy," he 
said, boldly, but with all reverence due to his birth and present 
station, " calls to your memory the oath, which you swore to him 
by your hand and by your mouth, on good and holy relics !" 

" True it is," answered Harold, " that I did so swear ; but 
under force I did so, not by free will of mine ! Moreover, I 
did promise that which 'twas not mine to grant. My royalty 
belongs not to myself, but to my people, in trust of whom I hold 
it. I may not yield it but at their demand ; let them but second 
William, and instantly the crown he seeks for shall be his ! 
Farther, without my people's leave, I may not wed a woman 
of a stranger race. My sister, whom he would have espoused 
unto the noblest of his barons — she hath been dead a year. 
Will he, that I should send her corpse ?" 



24 

A little month elapsed, and during that brief interval, Harold 
neglected nothing that might preserve the crown he had deter- 
mined never, except with life, to yield to his fierce rival. 
A powerful fleet was instantly appointed to cruise upon the 
Downs, and intercept the French invaders ; a mighty army was 
collected on the coast, and each and all the Saxon landholders, 
nobles, and thanes, and franklins, bound themselves by strong 
oaths " never to entertain or truce, or treaty, with the detested 
Normans, but to die freemen, or freemen to conquer." 

A second time the herald came in peace, demanding, in 
tones fair and moderate, that Harold, if he might not keep all 
the conditions of his oath, would fulfil part, at least, and wed 
Alice, his betrothed wife already, the daughter of the puissant 
duke, who, thereupon, would yield to him, as being his daugh- 
ter's dower, all right and title to the crown, which he now 
claimed as his by heritage. 

Harold again returned a brief and stern refusal ; resolved, 
that as he would not yield the whole, he would not, by conce- 
ding part, risk the alienation of the love — which he possessed 
in an extraordinary degree — of the whole English people*. 
Then burst the storm at once. From every part of Europe, 
where the victorious banners of the Normans were spread to 
the wind of heaven, adventurers flocked to the consecrated 
standard of their kinsman. 

Four hundred vessels of the largest class, and more than 
twice that number of the transports of the day, were speedily 
assembled in the frith of Dives, a stream which falls into the 
sea between the Seine and Orne. There, for a month or bet- 
ter, by contrary winds and furious storms, they were detained 
inactive. At length, a southern breeze rose suddenly, and by 
its aid they made the harbor of Saint Valery; but there, again, 
they were detained by times more stormy than before ; and, 
superstitious as all men of that period were, the soldiers soon 



INVASION BY THE NORWEGIAN HOST. 25 

began to tremble and to murmur ; strange tales of dreams, and 
prodigies were circulated, and the spirit of that vast host, of 
late so confident and proud, sank hourly. At length, whether 
at the instigation of their own fanatical belief, or as a last re- 
source, or hoping to distract the minds of men from gloomier 
considerations, the Norman chiefs appointed a procession round 
the harbor of Saint Valery; bearing the holiest relics, and 
among them, the bones of the good saint himself, the patron 
and nomenclator of the town ; and ere the prayers were ended, 
lo ! the wind shifted once again, and now blew steadily and 
fair, swelling the canvass with propitious breath, and driving 
out each vane and streamer at full length, toward their des- 
tined port. 

The same storm, which had held William on his Norman 
coast, windbound and motionless, which he had cursed as un- 
propitious and disastrous, fifty times every day, for the last 
month, had been, in truth — so little is the foresight, and so ig- 
norant the wisdom even of the most sagacious among mortals — 
had been, in truth, the agent by which his future conquest was 
to be effected. Those gales which pent the Norman galleys 
in their harbors, had forced the English fleet, shattered and 
storm-tossed, to put in for victuals and repairs, leaving the seas 
unguarded to the approach of the invaders. Nor was this all! 
Those self-same gales had wafted from the northward another 
fleet of foemen, the Norwegian host of the bold sea-king, Har- 
old Hardrada, and the treacherous Tosti, the rebel brother of 
the Saxon monarch. Debarking in the Humber, they had laid 
waste the fertile borders of Northumberland and Yorkshire ; 
had vanquished, in a pitched battle, Morcar and Edwin, and 
the youthful Waltheof — who had made head against them 
with their sudden levies, raised from the neighboring countries 
— had driven them into the walls of York, and there were now 
besieging them with little hope of rescue or relief. Meanwhile, 

2 



26 the norman's vengeance. 

the king, who had, for months, been lying in the southern por- 
tion of the realm, in Essex, Kent, or Sussex, awaiting, at the 
head of the best warriors of his kingdom, the arrival of his 
most inveterate foeman — summoned by news of this irruption, 
unexpected, yet, as it. seemed most formidable, into his north- 
ern provinces, lulled into temporary carelessness by the long 
tarrying of his Norman enemy; and hoping, as it indeed 
seemed probable, that the prevailing wind would not change 
so abruptly, but that he might, by using some extraordinary dil- 
igence and speed, attack and overpower the besieging force at 
York, and yet return to Dover in time to oppose, with the uni- 
ted force of his whole nation, the disembarkation of the duke 
— had left his post and travelled with all speed toward York, 
leading the bravest and best-disciplined of his army against the 
fierce Norwegians, while the shores of Sussex remained com- 
paratively naked and defenceless. A bloody and decisive bat- 
tle, fought at the bridge of Staneford, over the river Derwent, 
rewarded his activity and valor — a battle in which he displayed 
no less his generalship and valor, than the kind generosity and 
mercy of his nature. Riding, himself, in person, up to the 
hostile lines, before the first encounter, sheathed in the com- 
plete armor of the Norman chivalry — which, since his visit to 
the continent, he had adopted — "Where," he cried, in his 
loudest tones, "is Tosti, son of Godwin ?" 

" Here stands he," answered the rebel, from the centre of 
the Norwegian phalanx, which, with lowered spears, awaited 
the attack. 

" Thy brother," replied Harold, concealed by the frontlet of 
his barred helmet from all recognition, " sends thee his greet- 
ing — offers thee peace, and friendship, and all thine ancient, 
honors." 

" Good words !" cried Tosti, " mighty good, and widely dif- 
ferent from the insults he bestowed on me last year ! But if I 



DEFEAT OF THE NORWEGIAN HOST. 27 

should accept the offer, what will he grant to Harold, son of 
Sigurd?" 

" Seven feet of English earth," replied the king ; "or, since 
he be gigantic in his stature, he shall have somewhat more !" 

" Let Harold, then address himself to battle," answered 
Tosti. " None but a liar ever shall declare that Tosti, son of 
Godwin, has played a traitor's part to Harold, son of Sigurd !" 

There was no more of parley. With a shock, that was 
heard for leagues, the hosts encountered ; and in the very first 
encounter, pierced by an arrow in the throat, Hardrada fell, 
and to his place succeeded that false brother and rebellious sub- 
ject, Tosti, the Saxon. Again the generous Harold offered 
him peace and liberal conditions ! again his offers were insult- 
ingly rejected ! and once again, with a more deadly fury than 
before, the armies met, and, this time, fought it out, till not a 
leader or a chief of the Norwegian host was left alive, save 
Olaf, Harold's son, and the prince bishop of the Orkneys — 
Tosti, himself, having at length obtained the fate he merited so 
richly. A third time peace and amity were offered, ajid now 
they were accepted ; and swearing friendship to the English 
king for ever, the Norsemen left the fatal land, whereon yet 
weltered in their gore their king, the noblest of their chiefs, 
and twice five thousand of the bravest men of their brave na- 
tion. But glorious as that day was justly deemed — and widely 
as it was sung and celebrated by the Saxon bards — perfect as 
was the safety w 7 hich it wrought to all the northern counties — 
and freely as it suffered Harold to turn his undivided forces 
against whatever foe might dare set hostile foot on English soil 
inviolate — still was that day decisive of his fate ! — decisive of 
the victory of William, whose banners were already floating 
over the narrow seas in proud anticipation of their coming tri- 
umph! 

It was a bright and beauteous morning in September, when 



28 the norman's vengeance. 

the great fleet of William put to sea, the galley of the grand 
duke leading. She was a tall ship, of the largest tonnage then 
in use, well manned, and gallantly equipped ; from the main- 
topmast streamed the consecrated banner of the pope, and from 
her peak, a broad flag with a blood-red cross. Her sails w T ere, 
not as now, of plain white canvass, but gorgeously adorned 
with various colors, and blazoned with the rude incipient her- 
aldry, which, though not then a science, was growing gradu- 
ally into esteem and use. In several places might be seen de- 
picted the three Lions, which were even then the arms of Nor- 
mandy ; and on her prow was carved, with the best skill of the 
French artist, a young child with a bended bow, and a shaft 
quivering on the string. Fair blew the breeze, and free the gal- 
lant ship careered before it — before the self-same wind which 
at the self-same moment was tossing on its joyous pinions the 
victorious banners of the Saxon king. Fair blew the breeze, and 
fast the ship of William sped through the curling billows — so 
fast that, ere the sun set in the sea, the fleet, was hull down in 
the offing, though staggering along under all press of sail. 
Night sank upon the sea ; and faster flew the duke ; and as the 
morning broke, the chalky cliffs of Albion were in full view, at 
two or three leagues distance. William, who had slept all that 
night as soundly and as calmly as a child, stood on the deck 
ere it was light enough to see the largest object on the sea, 
one mile away. His first glance w T as toward the promised 
land, he was so swiftly nearing ; his second, toward the offing, 
where he hoped to see his gallant followers. Brighter and 
brighter grew the morning, but not a speck was visible upon 
the clear horizon. " Up to the topmast, mariners," cried the 
bold duke ; " up to the topmast-head ! And now what see 
ye V he continued, as they sprang up in rapid emulation to 
that giddy height. 

" Naught," cried the first — "naught but the sea and sky !" 



LANDING OF THE NORMANS. 29 

" Anchor, then — anchor, presently ; we will await their com- 
ing, and in the meanwhile, Sir Seneschal, serve us a breakfast 
of your best, and see there be no lack of wines, the strongest 
and the noblest !" and, on the instant, the heavy plunge was 
heard of the huge anchor in the deep ; the sails were furled ; 
and like a living creature endowed with intellect, and moving 
by volition, the gallant ship swung round, awaiting the arrival 
of her consorts. 

The feast was spread, and, from the high duke on the poop 
to the most humble mariner on the forecastle, the red wine 
flowed for all in generous profusion. Again a lookout was 
sent up, and now he cried, " I see far, far, to seaward, the 
topsails of four vessels." A little pause consumed in revelry 
and feasting, and once again the ship-boy climbed the mast. 
" I see," he said, the third time, " a forest on the deep, of 
masts and sails !" 

" God aid! God aid!" replied the armed crew — "God aid!" 
and, with the word, again they weighed the anchor, and, ere 
three hours had passed, the whole of that huge armament rode 
at their moorings off the beach at Pevensey. 

There was no sign of opposition or resistance ; and on the 
third day after Harold's victory at Staneford, the Norman host 
set foot on English soil. The archers were the first to disem- 
bark — armed with the six-foot bows, and cloth-yard shafts, 
then, for the first time, seen in England, soon destined to be- 
come the national weapon of its stout yeomanry. Their faces 
closely shorn, and short-cut hair, their light and succinct 
garments, were seen by the affrighted peasantry, who looked 
upon their landing from a distance, with equal terror and aston- 
ishment. Next came the men-at-arms, sheathed in their glit- 
tering hauberks and bright hose-of-mail, with conical steel hel- 
mets on their heads, long lances in their hands, and huge two- 
handed swords transversely girt across their persons. After 



30 the norman's vengeance. 

them landed the pioneers, the laborers, and carpenters, who 
made the complement of that immense army, bearing with them, 
piece after piece, three fortresses of timber, arranged before- 
hand, and prepared to be erected on the instant, wherever they 
should come to land. Last of the mighty host, Duke William 
left his galley, and the long lines fell into orderly and beautiful 
array, as he was rowed to land. In leaping to that wished-for 
shore, the Norman's right foot struck the gunwale of the shal- 
lop, and he fell headlong on the sand, face downward. In- 
stantly, through the whole array, a deep and shuddering mur- 
mur rose — " God guard us — 'tis a sign of evil !" 

But ere the sounds had passed away, he had sprung to his 
feet. " What is it that you fear ?" he shouted, in clear and 
joyous tones, " or what dismays you 1 Lo ! I have seized 
this earth in both mine hands, and, by the splendor of our God, 
'tis yours !" 

Loud was the cheer of gratulation which peeled seaward far, 
and far into the bosom of the invaded land, at that most bril- 
liant and successful repartee — and with alacrity and glee — 
confident of success, and high in daring courage — the Norman 
host marched, unopposed, in regular and terrible array, toward 
Hastings. Here on the well-known heights, to this day known 
by the commemorative name of Battle, the wooden fortresses 
were speedily erected ; trenches were dug ; and William's 
army sat down for the night upon the land, which was thence- 
forth to be their heritage — thenceforth for evermore. 

The news reached Harold as he lay at York, wounded and 
resting from his labors, and on the instant, with his victorious 
army, he set forth, publishing, as he marched along, his proc- 
lamation to all the chief of provinces and shires, to arm their 
followers, and meet him with all speed at London. The west- 
ern levies came without delay ; those from the north, owing to 
distance, were some time behind ; and yet, could Harold have 



THE PARLEY. 31 

been brought by any means to moderate his fierce and despe- 
rate impatience, he would, ere four days had elapsed, have 
found himself, at least, in the command of twice two hundred 
men. But irritated to the utmost by the sufferings of his coun- 
trymen, whose lands were pitilessly ravaged, whose tenements 
were burned for miles around the Norman camp, whose wives 
and daughters were subjected to every species of insult and 
indignity, the Saxon king pressed onward. And though his 
forces did not amount to one-fourth part of the great duke's 
array, still, he was resolved to encounter them, precipitate and 
furious as a madman. 

On the eighteenth day after the defeat of Tosti and Hardrada, 
the Saxon army was encamped over against the fortified posi- 
tion of the invaders. On that same day, a monk, Sir Hugues 
Maigrot, came to find Harold, with proposals from the foe, 
offering him peace on one of three conditions — either that ho 
should yield the kingdom presently — or leave it to the arbitra- 
tion of the pope — or, finally, decide the matter by appeal to 
God in single combat. 

To each and all of these proposals, the Saxon answered 
bluntly in the negative. " I will not yield my kingdom ! I 
will not leave it to the pope ! I will not meet the duke in 
single combat !" 

Again the monk returned. " I come again," he said, " from 
William. ' Tell Harold,' said the duke, ' if he will hold him 
to his ancient compact, I yield him all the lands beyond the 
Humber ; I give his brother Gurth all the demesnes his father, 
Godwin, held. If he refuse these my last proffers, tell him be- 
fore his people, he is a perjured liar, accursed of the pope, and 
excommunicated — he, and all those that hold to him !' " 

But no effect had the bold words of William on the stern 
spirits of the English. " Battle," they cried — " no peace with 
the Normans. Battle — immediate battle!" and with that an- 



32 the norman's vengeance. 

swer did the priest return to his employer ; and either host pre- 
pared for the appeal to that great arbiter, the sword. 

Fairly the morning broke which was to look upon the slaugh- 
ter of so many thousands ; broad and bright rose the sun before 
whose setting one of those two magnificent and gallant armies 
must necessarily be involved in utter ruin. As the first rays 
were visible upon the eastern sky, Odo, the bishop of Bayeux, 
William's maternal brother, performed high mass before the 
marshalled troops, wearing his cope and rochet over his iron 
harness. The holy rites performed, he leaped upon his snow- 
white charger, and, with his truncheon in his hand, arrayed 
the cavalry, which he commanded. 

It was a glorious spectacle, that mighty host, arrayed in 
three long columns of attack, marching with slow and orderly 
precision against the palisaded trenches of the Saxons. The 
men-at-arms of the great counts of Boulogne and Ponthieu 
composed the first ; the second being formed by the auxiliar 
bands of Brittany, Poitou, and Maine ; and in the third, com- 
manded by the duke in person — mounted on a superb Andalu- 
sian charger, wearing about his neck the reliquary on which 
his rival had sworn falsely, and accompanied by a young noble, 
Tunstan the White, bearing the banner of the pope — were 
marshalled all the flower and strength of Normandy. Scat- 
tered along the front of the advance were multitudes of archers, 
lightly equipped in quilted jerkins, with long yew bows, and 
arrows of an ell in length, mingled with crossbow-men with 
arbalasts of steel, and square, steel-headed quarrels. 

Steadily they advanced, and in good order ; while, in their 
entrenched camp, guarded by palisades of oak morticed together 
in a long line of ponderous trellis-work, the Englishmen awaited 
their approach, drawn up around their standard, which — bla- 
zoned with the white dragon, long both the ensign and the war- 
cry of their race — was planted firmly in the earth, surrounded 



THE BATTLE. 33 

by the dense ranks of heavy infantry which formed the strength 
of their array. 

Just as the charge began, William rode out before the lines, 
and thus addressed his soldiery : " Turn your hearts wholly to 
the combat ! set all upon the die, either to fall or conquer ! For 
if we gain, we shall be rich and glorious. That which I gain, 
shall be your gain ; that which I conquer, yours ! If I shall 
win this land, ye shall possess it ! Know, too, and well remem- 
ber this, that not to claim my right have I come only, but to 
revenge — ay, to revenge our gentle nation on all the felonies, 
the perjuries, the treasons of the English! — the English, who, 
in profound peace, upon Saint Brice's eve, ruthlessly slew the 
unarmed and defenceless Danes ; who decimated the bold fol- 
lowers of Alfred, my kinsman and your countryman, and slew 
himself by shameless treachery ! On, then, with God's aid, 
Normans ! on, for revenge and victory !" 

Then out dashed from the lines the boldest of his vavasours, 
the Norman Taillefer, singing aloud the famous song — well 
known through every province of proud France — the song of 
Charlemagne and Rollo — tossing aloft the while his long, two- 
handed war-sword, and catching it adroitly as it fell ; while at 
each close of that proud, spirit-stirring chant, each warrior of 
that vast array thundered the burden of the song — " God aid ! 
God aid !" 

Then, like a storm of hail, close, deadly, and incessant, went 
forth the volleyed showers from arbalast and long-bow ; while 
infantry and horse charged m unbroken order against the gates 
and angles of the fort. But with a cool and stubborn hardi- 
hood the Saxon infantry stood firm. Protected by the massive 
palisades from the appalling volleys of the archery, they hurled 
their short and heavy javelins with certain aim and deadly exe- 
cution over their stout defences ; while their huge axes, wher- 
ever they came hand to hand, shivered the Norman spears like 

2* 



34 the norman's vengeance. 

reeds, and cleft the heaviest mail, even at a single blow ! Long, 
and with all the hot, enthusiastic valor of their race, did the 
assailants crowd around the ramparts ; but it was all in vain — 
they could not scale them in the face of that indomitable in- 
fantry ; they could not force one timber from its place ; and 
they at length recoiled, weary and half-subdued, toward the 
reserve of William. 

After a short cessation, again the archery advanced ; but, 
by the orders of the duke, their volleys were no longer sent 
point-blank, but shot at a great elevation, so that they fell in a 
thick, galling shower, striking the heads and wounding the un- 
guarded faces of the bold defenders. Harold himself, who 
fought on foot beside his standard, lost his right eye at the first 
flight ; but not for that did he desert his post, or play less val- 
iantly the part of a determined soldier and wise leader. Again 
with that tremendous shout of " Notre Dame — God aid ! God 
aid !" which had, in every realm of Europe, sounded the har- 
binger of victory, the horse and foot rushed on to the attack ; 
while from their rear that heavy and incessant sleet of bolt, and 
shaft, and bullet, fell fast and frequent into the dense ranks of 
the still-undaunte^ English. At no point did they force their 
way, however, even when fighting at this desperate advantage. 
At no point did a single Norman penetrate a gate, or overtop a 
palisade ; while at one entrance so complete was the repulse 
of the attacking squadrons, that they recoiled, hard pressed by 
the defenders, to a ravine at some considerable distance from 
the trenches, deep, dangerous, and filled with underwood and 
brambles ; these, as they fell back in confusion, their horses 
stumbling and unable to recover, were overthrown and slain 
pell-mell, and half defeated. One charge of cavalry, one shock 
of barbed horse, would have insured the total rout of the in- 
vaders ; but — wo for England on that day ! — cavalry she had 
none, nor barbed horse, to complete gloriously the work her 



A STRATAGEM OF WAR. 35 

sturdy footmen had commenced so gallantly. Still, great was 
the disorder, great was the disarray and peril, of the foreign 
soldiery. The cry went through the host that the great duke 
was slain ; and, though he flung himself amid the flyers, with 
his head bare, that they might recognise his features — threat- 
ening, cursing, striking at friend and foe with undiscriminating 
violence — it was well nigh an hour before he could restore the 
semblance of any discipline or order. This, once accomplished, 
he advanced again ; and yet a third time, though he exerted 
every nerve, was he repulsed at every point in terrible disorder, 
and with tremendous loss. 

Evening was fast approaching ; and well did William know 
that, if the following morning should find the Saxons firm in 
their unforced entrenchments, his hopes were vain and hope- 
less ! The country, far and near, was rousing to the Saxon 
war-cry ; and to the Normans, not to conquer, was to be con- 
quered utterly ; and to be conquered was to perish, one and all ! 
Valor or open force, it was too evident, could effect nothing 
against men as valiant and as strong, posted with more advan- 
tage. Guile was his last resource ; and guile, as usual, pre- 
vailed ! 

A thousand of his cavaliers advanced, as though about to 
charge the trenches at full speed, with lances lowered, and with 
their wonted ensenzie, " God aid !" But as they neared the 
palisades, by preconcerted stratagem, as if they had lost heart, 
they suddenly drew bridle, all as a single man, and fled, as it 
appeared, in irretrievable disorder, back, back to the main 
body ! Meanwhile, throughout the lines, the banners were 
waved to and fro disorderly, and the ranks shifted, and spears 
rose and fell, and all betokened their complete disorganization. 
The sight was too much even for the cool hardihood of Saxon 
courage. With one tremendous shout they rushed from their 
entrenchments — which, had they held to them, not forty-fold 



36 the norman's vengeance. 

the force of William could have successfully assailed — and, 
wielding with both hands their bills and axes, plunged head- 
long in pursuit. That instant, all was over ! For, at a mo- 
ment's notice, at a concerted signal of a single trumpet, the 
very men they deemed defeated wheeled into line ; and with 
their spears projecting ten feet, at the least, before their char- 
gers' poitrels, their long plumes floating backward in the cur- 
rent caused by their own quick motion, the chivalry of France 
bore down on their pursuers, breathless, confused, and strug- 
gling. It was a massacre, but not a rout ; for not a man turned 
on his heel, or even thought to fly : but back to back, in desper- 
ate groups, they fought after their ranks were broken, hewing 
with their short weapons at the mail-clad lancers, who securely 
speared them from the backs of their barbed horses — asking 
not, nor receiving quarter — true sons of England to the last, 
annihilated but not conquered ! Night fell, and Gurth, and 
Leofwyn, and Harold, lay dead around their standard — pierced 
with innumerable wounds, gory, and not to be discerned, so 
were their features and their forms defaced and mangled by 
friend or foeman. Yet still, when all was lost, without array 
or order, standards, or chiefs, or hopes, the Englishmen fought 
on — till total darkness sank down on the field of slaughter, and 
utter inability to slay caused a brief pause in the unsparing 
havoc. Such was the vengeance of the Norman ! 



THE FAITH OF WOMAN. 



"Two things there be on earth that ne'er forget — 
A woman, and a dog — where once their love is set!" — Old MS. 

It was the morning after the exterminating fight at Hastings. 
The banner blessed of the Roman pontiff streamed on the taint- 
ed air, from the same hillock whence the dragon standard of 
the Saxons had shone unconquered to the sun of yester-even ! 
Hard by was pitched the proud pavilion of the conqueror, who, 
after the tremendous strife and perilous labors of the preceding 
day, reposed himself in fearless and untroubled confidence upon 
the field of his renown ; secure in the possession of the land, 
which he was destined to transmit to his posterity for many a 
hundred years, by the red title of the sword. 

To the defeated Saxons, morning, however, brought but a 
renewal of those miseries which, having yesterday commenced 
with the first victory of their Norman lords, were never to con- 
clude, or even to relax, until the complete amalgamation of the 
rival races should leave no Normans to torment, no Saxons to 
endure ; all being merged at last into one general name of 
English, and by their union giving origin to the most powerful, 
and brave, and intellectual people, the world has ever looked 
upon since the extinction of Rome's freedom. 

At the time of which we are now speaking, nothing was 



38 THE FAITH OF WOMAN. 

thought of by the victors save how to rivet most securely on 
the necks of the unhappy natives their yoke of iron ; nothing 
by the poor, subjugated Saxons, but how to escape for the mo- 
ment the unrelenting massacre which was urged far and wide 
by the remorseless conquerors throughout the devastated coun- 
try. With the defeat of Harold's host, all national hope of 
freedom was at. once lost to England. Though, to a man, the 
English population were brave and loyal, and devoted to their 
country's rights, the want of leaders — all having perished side 
by side on that disastrous field — of combination, without which 
myriads are but dust in the scale against the force of one united 
handful — rendered them quite unworthy of any serious fears, 
and even of consideration, to the bloodthirsty barons of the in- 
vading army. Over the whole expanse of level country which 
might be seen from the slight elevation whereon was pitched 
the camp of William, on every side might be descried small 
parties of the Norman horse, driving in with their bloody lances, 
as if they were mere cattle, the unhappy captives ; a few of 
whom they now began to spare, not from the slightest senti- 
ment of mercy, but literally that their arms were weary with 
the task of slaying, although their hearts were yet insatiate of 
blood. 

It must be taken now into consideration by those who listen 
with dismay and wonder to the accounts of pitiless barbarity — 
of ruthless, indiscriminating slaughter on the part of men whom 
they have hitherto been taught to look upon as brave indeed as 
lions in the field, but not partaking of the lion's nature after 
the field was won — not only that the seeds of enmity had long 
been sown between those rival people, but that the deadly crop 
of hatred had grown up, watered abundantly by the tears and 
blood of either ; and, lastly, that the fierce fanaticism of reli- 
gious persecution was added to the natural rancor of a war 
waged for the ends of conquest or extermination. The Saxon 



BARBARITIES OF WAR. 39 

nation, from the king downward to the meanest serf who fought 
beneath his banner, or buckled on the arms of liberty, were all 
involved under the common ban of the pope's interdict. They 
were accursed of God, and handed over by his holy church to 
the kind mercies of the secular arm ; and therefore, though but 
yesterday they were a powerful and united nation, to-day they 
were but a vile horde of scattered outlaws, whom any man 
might slay wherever he should find them, whether in arms or 
otherwise — amenable for blood neither to any mortal jurisdic- 
tion, nor even to the ultimate tribunal to which all must submit 
hereafter, unless deprived of their appeal like these poor fugi- 
tives, by excommunication from the pale of Christianity. For 
thirty miles around the Norman camp, pillars of smoke by day, 
continually streaming upward to the polluted heaven, and the 
red glare of nightly conflagration, told fatally the doom of many 
a happy home ! Neither the castle nor the cottage might pre- 
serve their male inhabitants from the sword's edge, their fe- 
males from more barbarous persecution. Neither the sacred 
hearth of hospitality nor the more sacred altars of God's churches 
might protect the miserable fugitives ; neither the mail-shirt of 
the man-at-arms nor the monk's frock of serge availed against 
the thrust of the fierce Norman spear. All was dismay and 
havoc, such as the land wherein those horrors were enacted has 
never witnessed since, through many a following age. 

High noon approached, and in the conqueror's tent a gor- 
geous feast was spread. The red wine flowed profusely, and 
song and minstrelsy arose with their heart-soothing tones, to 
which the feeble groans of dying wretches bore a dread burden 
from the plain whereon they still lay struggling in their great 
agonies, too sorely maimed to live, too strong as yet to die. 
But, ever and anon, their wail waxed feebler and less frequent ; 
for many a plunderer was on foot, licensed to ply his odious 
calling in the full light of day — reaping his first if not his rich- 



40 THE FAITH OF WOMAN. 

est booty from the dead bodies of their slaughtered foemen. Ill 
fared the wretches who lay there, untended by the hand of love 
or mercy, " scorched by the death-thirst, and writhing in vain ;" 
but worse fared they who showed a sign of life to the relentless 
robbers of the dead, for then the dagger — falsely called that of 
mercy — was the dispenser of immediate immortality. The 
conqueror sat at his triumphant board, and barons drank his 
health : " First English monarch, of the pure blood of Norman- 
dy !" — "King by the right of the sword's edge!" — "Great, 
glorious, and sublime !" Yet was not his heart softened, nor 
was his bitter hate toward the unhappy prince who had so often 
ridden by his side in war, and feasted at the same board with 
him in peace, relinquished or abated. Even while the feast 
was at the highest, while every heart was jocund and sublime, 
a trembling messenger approached, craving on bended knee 
permission to address the conqueror and king — for so he was 
already schooled by brief but hard experience to style the de- 
vastator of his country. 

" Speak out, Dog Saxon !" cried the ferocious prince ; " but 
since thou must speak, see that thy speech be brief, an' thou 
wouldst keep thy tongue uncropped thereafter !" 

" Great duke and mighty," replied the trembling envoy, " I 
bear you greeting from Elgitha, herewhile the noble wife of 
Godwin, the queenly mother of our late monarch — now, as she 
bade me style her, the humblest of your suppliants and slaves. 
Of your great nobleness and mercy, mighty king, she sues you, 
that you will grant her the poor leave to search amid the heaps 
of those our Saxon dead, that her three sons may at least lie in 
consecrated earth — so may God send you peace and glory 
here, and everlasting happiness hereafter !" 

" Hear to the Saxon slave !" William exclaimed, turning as 
if in wonder toward his nobles ; " hear to the Saxon slave, that 
dares to speak of consecrated earth, and of interment for the 



THE SUPPLIANT SPURNED. 41 

accursed body of that most perjured, excommunicated liar! 
Hence ! tell the mother of the dead dog, whom you have dared 
to style your king, that for the interdicted and accursed dead 
the sands of the seashore are but too good a sepulchre !" 

" She bade me proffer humbly to your acceptance the weight 
of Harold's body in pure gold," faintly gasped forth the terri- 
fied and cringing messenger, " so you would grant her that per- 
mission." 

" Proffer us gold ! what gold, or whose 1 Know, villain, all 
the gold throughout this conquered realm is ours. Hence, dog 
and outcast, hence ! nor presume e'er again to come, insulting 
us by proffering, as a boon to our acceptance, that which we 
own already, by the most indefeasible and ancient right of con- 
quest ! — Said I not well, knights, vavasours, and nobles V* 

" Well ! well and nobly !" answered they, one and all. " The 
land is ours, and all that therein is : their dwellings, their de- 
mesnes, their wealth, whether of gold, or silver, or of cattle — 
yea, they themselves are ours ! themselves, their sons, their 
daughters, and their wives — our portion and inheritance, to be 
our slaves for ever !" 

" Begone ! you have our answer," exclaimed the duke, spurn- 
ing him with his foot ; " and hark ye, arbalast-men and archers, 
if any Saxon more approach us on like errand, see if his coat 
of skin be proof against the quarrel of the shaft!" 

And once again the feast went on ; and louder rang the rev- 
elry, and faster flew the wine-cup, round the tumultuous board. 
All day the banquet lasted, even till the dews of heaven fell on 
that fatal field, watered sufficiently already by the rich gore of 
many a noble heart. All day the banquet lasted, and far was 
it prolonged into the watches of the night ; when, rising with 
the wine-cup in his hand — " Nobles and barons," cried the 
duke, " friends, comrades, conquerors, bear witness to my vow ! 
Here, on these heights of Hastings, and more especially upon 



42 THE FAITH OF WOMAN. 

yon mound and hillock, where God gave to us our high victory, 
and where our last foe fell — there will I raise an abbey to his 
eternal praise and glory. Richly endowed, it shall be, from the 
first fruits of this our land. Battle, it shall be called, to send 
the memory of this, the great and singular achievement of our 
race, to far posterity ; and, by the splendor of our God, wine shall 
be plentier among the monks of Battle, than water in the no- 
blest and richest cloister else, search the world over ! This 
do I swear : so may God aid, who hath thus far assisted us for 
our renown, and will not now deny his help, when it be asked 
for his own glory !" 

The second day dawned on the place of horror, and not a 
Saxon had presumed, since the intolerant message of the duke, 
to come to look upon his dead. But now the ground was 
needed whereon to lay the first stone of the abbey William had 
vowed to God. The ground was needed ; and, moreover, the 
foul steam from the human shambles was pestilential on the 
winds of heaven. And now, by trumpet-sound, and proclama- 
tion through the land, the Saxons were called forth, on pain of 
death, to come and seek their dead, lest the health of the con- 
querors should suffer from the pollution they themselves had 
wrought. Scarce had the blast sounded, and the glad tidings 
been announced once only, ere from their miserable shelters, 
where they had herded with the wild beasts of the forest — 
from wood, morass, and cavern, happy if there they might es- 
cape the Norman spear — forth crept the relics of that perse- 
cuted race. Old men and matrons, with hoary heads, and steps 
that tottered no less from the effect of terror than of age — 
maidens, and youths, and infants — too happy to obtain permis- 
sion to search amid those festering heaps, dabbling their hands 
in the corrupt and pestilential gore which filled each nook and 
hollow of the dinted soil, so they might bear away, and water 
with their tears, and yield to consecrated ground, the relics of 



THE MONKS OF WALTHAM ABBEY. 43 

those brave ones, once loved so fondly, and now so bitterly la- 
mented. It was toward the afternoon of that same day, when a 
long train was seen approaching, with crucifix, and cross, and 
censer — the monks of Waltham abbey, coming to offer homage 
for themselves, and for their tenantry and vassals, to him whom 
they acknowledged as their king ; expressing their submission 
to the high will of the Norman pontiff — justified, as they said, 
and proved by the assertion of God's judgment upon the hill of 
Hastings. Highly delighted by this absolute submission, the 
first he had received from any English tongue, the conqueror 
received the monks with courtesy and favor, granting them high 
immunities, and promising them free protection, and the unques- 
tioned tenor of their broad demesnes for ever. Nay, after he had 
answered their address, he detained two of their number — men 
of intelligence, as with his wonted quickness of perception he 
instantly discovered — from whom to derive information as to 
the nature of his newly-acquired country and newly-conquered 
subjects. Osgad and Ailric, the deputed messengers from the 
respected principal of their community, had yet a further and 
higher object than to tender their submission to the conqueror. 
Their orders were, at all and every risk, to gain permission to 
consign the corpse of their late king and founder to the earth 
previously denied to him. And soon, emboldened by the cour- 
tesy and kindness of the much-dreaded Norman, they took cour- 
age to approach the subject, knowing it interdicted, even on 
pain of death ; and, to their wonder and delight, it was unhesi- 
tatingly granted. 

Throughout the whole of the third day succeeding that un- 
paralleled defeat and slaughter, those old men might be seen 
toiling among the naked carcasses, disfigured, maimed, and fes- 
tering in the sun, toiling to find the object of their devoted ven- 
eration. But vain were all their labors — vain was their search, 
even when they called in the aid of his most intimate attend- 



44 THE FAITH OF WOMAN. 

ants, ay, of the mother that had borne him ! The corpses of 
his brethren, Leofwyn and Gurth, were soon discovered ; but 
not one eye, even of those who had most dearly loved him, 
could now distinguish the maimed features of the king. 

At last, when hope itself was now almost extinct, some one 
named Edith — Edith the Swan-necked! She had been the 
mistress — years ere he had been, or dreamed of being, king — 
to the brave son of Godwin. She had beloved him in her youth 
with that one, single-minded, constant, never-ending love, which 
but few, even of her devoted sex, can feel, and they but once, 
and for one cherished object. Deserted and dishonored when 
he she loved was elevated to the throne, she had not ceased 
from her true adoration ; but, quitting her now-joyless home, 
had shared her heart between her memories and her God, in 
the sequestered cloisters of the nunnery of Croyland. More 
days elapsed ere she could reach the fatal spot, and the in- 
creased corruption denied the smallest hope of his discovery : 
yet, from the moment when the mission was named to her, she 
expressed her full and confident conviction that she could rec- 
ognise that loved one so long as but one hair remained on that 
head she had once so cherished ! It was night when she ar- 
rived on the fatal field, and by the light of torches once more 
they set out on their awful duty. " Show me the spot," she said, 
" where the last warrior fell ;" and she was led to the place where 
had been found the corpses of his gallant brethren : and, with an 
instinct that nothing could deceive, she went straight to the corpse 
of Harold ! It had been turned already to and fro many times by 
those who sought it ; his mother had looked on it, and pronounced 
it not her son's : but that devoted heart knew it at once — and 
broke ! Whom rank, and wealth, and honors had divided, defeat 
and death made one ! — and the same grave contained the cold 
remains of Edith the Swan-necked and the last scion of the 
Saxon kings of England. 



THE ERRING ARROW. 



"Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green-wood, 
When the navis and merle are singing, 
When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry, 
And the hunter's horn is ringing." — Lady of the Lake. 

As beautiful a summers morning as ever chased the stars 
from heaven, was dawning over that wide tract of waste and 
woodland, which still, though many a century has now mossed 
over the ancestral oaks which then were in their lusty prime, 
retains the name by which it was at that day styled appropri- 
ately — the " New Forest." Few years had then elapsed since 
the first Norman lord of England had quenched the fires that 
burned in thirty hamlets ; had desecrated God's own altars, ma- 
king the roofless aisles of many a parish church the haunt of 
the grim wolf or antlered red-deer ; turning fair fields and cul- 
tured vales to barren and desolate wastes — to gratify his furi- 
ous passion for that sport which has so justly been entitled the 
mimicry of warfare. Few years had then elapsed, yet not a 
symptom of their old fertility could now be traced in the wild 
plains waving with fern, and overrun with copsewood, broom, 
and brambles ; unless it might be found in the profuse luxuri- 
ance with which this thriftless crop had overspread the cham- 
paign once smiling like a goodly garden with every meet pro- 
duction for the sustenance of man. 



46 THE ERRING ARROW. 

It was, as has been said, as beautiful a summer's morning as 
ever eye of man beheld. The sun, which had just raised the 
verge of his great orb above the low horizon, was checkering 
the mossy greensward with long, fantastic lines of light and 
shadow, and tinging the gnarled limbs of the huge oaks with 
ruddy gold ; the dew, which lay abundantly on every blade of 
grass and every bending wild-flower, had not yet felt his power, 
nor raised a single mist-wreath to veil the brightness of the fir- 
mament ; nor was the landscape, that lay there steeped in the 
lustre of the glowing skies, less lovely than the dawn that 
waked above it : long sylvan avenues sweeping for miles 
through every variation of the wildest forest-scenery — here 
traversing in easy curves wide undulations clothed with the 
purple heather ; here sinking downward to the brink of sheets 
of limpid water ; now running straight through lines of mighty 
trees, and now completely overbowered as they dived through 
brakes and dingles, where the birch and holly grew so thickly 
mingled with the prickly furze and creeping eglantine as to 
make twilight of the hottest noontide. Such were the leading 
features of the country which had most deeply felt, and has 
borne down to later days most evident memorials of, the Nor- 
man's tyranny. 

Deeply embosomed in these delicious solitudes — surrounded 
by its flanking walls, and moat brimmed from a neighboring 
streamlet, with barbican and ballium, and all the elaborate de- 
fences that marked the architecture of the conquering race — 
stood Malwood keep, the favorite residence of Rufus, no less 
than it had been of his more famous sire. Here, early as was 
the hour, all was already full of life, full of the joyous and in- 
spiriting confusion that still characterizes, though in a less de- 
gree than in those days of feudal pomp, the preparations for 
the chase. Tall yeomen hurried to and fro — some leading 
powerful and blooded chargers, which reared, and pawed the 



PREPARATIONS FOR THE CHASE. 47 

earth, and neighed till every turret echoed to the din ; some 
struggling to restrain the mighty bloodhounds which bayed and 
strove indignantly against the leash ; while others, lying in 
scattered groups upon the esplanade of level turf, furbished 
their cloth -yard shafts, or strung the six-foot bows, which, for 
the first time, had drawn blood in England upon the fatal field 
of Hastings. 

It might be seen, upon the instant, it was no private retinue 
that mustered to the " mystery of forests," as in the quaint 
phrase of the day the noble sport was designated. A hundred 
horses, at the least, of the most costly and admired breeds, were 
there paraded : the huge, coal-black destrier of Flanders, limbed 
like an elephant, but with a coat that might have shamed the 
richest velvet by its sleekness ; the light and graceful Andalu- 
sian, with here and there a Spaniard, springy, and fleet, and 
fearless — while dogs, in numbers infinitely greater, and of races 
yet more various, made up the moving picture : bloodhounds to 
track the wounded quarry by their unerring scent ; slowhounds 
to force him from his lair ; gazehounds and lymmers to outstrip 
him on the level plain ; mastiffs to bay the boar, " crook-kneed 
and dew-lapped like Thessalian bulls ;" with terriers to unken- 
nel beasts of earth, and spaniels to rouse the fowls of air. Nor 
were these all, for birds themselves were there, trained to make 
war on their own race : the long-winged hawks of Norway, 
with lanners from the isle of Man ; merlins, and jerfalcons, and 
gosshawks. No tongue could tell the beauty of the creatures 
thus assembled : some scarcely half-reclaimed, and showing 
their wild nature at every glance of their quick, flashing eyes ; 
some docile and affectionate, and in all things dependent upon 
man, to whom, despite caprice, and cruelty, and coldness, they 
are more faithful in his need than he, proud though he be, dare 
boast himself toward his fellow. No fancy could imagine the 
superb and lavish gorgeousness of their equipment. 



48 THE ERRING ARROW. 

A long, keen bugle-blast rang from the keep, and in an in- 
stant a hundred bows were strung, a hundred ready feet were 
in the stirrup. Again it rang, longer and keener than before, 
and every forester was in his saddle ; while from the low-browed 
arch, bending their stately heads quite to their saddle-bows, 
over the echoing drawbridge a dozen knights rode forth, the 
followers and comrades of their king. 

Scarcely above the middle size, but moulded in most exquis- 
ite proportion, thin-flanked, deep-chested, muscular, and lithe, 
and agile, there was not one of all his train, noble, or squire, or 
yeoman, who could display a form so fitted for the union of ac- 
tivity with strength, of beauty with endurance, as could the 
second William. His hair, from which he had derived his 
famous soubriquet, was not of that marked and uncomely hue 
which we should now term red, but rather of a bright and yel- 
lowish brown, curled closely to a classical and bust-like head ; 
his eye was quick and piercing ; his features, severally, were 
well formed and handsome ; yet had the eye a wavering, and 
restless, and at times even downcast expression ; and the whole 
aspect of the face told many a tale of pride, and jealousy, and 
passion — suspicion that might be roused to cruelty, and wilful- 
ness that surely would be lashed by any opposition to violent 
and |fgjfl'|ess fury. But now the furrows on the brow were all 
relaxed, the harsh lines of the mouth smoothed into temporary 
blandness. " Forward, messires!" he cried, in Norman-French; 
" the morning finds us sluggards. What, ho ! Sir Walter Tyr- 
rel, shall we two company to-day, and gage our luck against 
these gay gallants ?" 

" Right jovially, my liege," returned the knight whom he ad- 
dressed. A tall, dark-featured soldier rode beside his bridle- 
rein, bearing a bow which not an archer in the train could 
bend. " Right jovially will we — an' they dare cope with us ! 
What sayest thou, De Beauchamp — darest thou wager thy 



THE ROYAL WAGER. 49 

black boar-hound against a cast of merlins — thyself and Ver- 
mandois against his grace and me ?" 

" Nay, thou shouldst gage him odds, my Walter," Rufus in- 
terposed ; " thy shaft flies ever truest, nor yield I to any bow- 
save thine !" 

" To his, my liege ?" cried Beauchamp, " thou yield to his ! 
Never drew Walter Tyrrel so true a string as thou ; he lacks 
the sleight, I trow, so ekes it out with strength ! Tyrrel must 
hold him pleased if he rate second r the field." 

" How now, Sir Walter ?" shouted the king ; " hearest thou 
this bold De Beauchamp, and wilt thou yield the bucklers? — 
not thou, I warrant me, though it be to thy king !" 

"So please your highness," Tyrrel answered; "'tis but a 
sleight to 'scape our wager — 'scaping the shame beside of 
yielding! He deems us over-strong for him, and so would 
part us!" 

" Nay, by my halydom," Rufus replied with a gay smile, 
" but we will have it so. We two will ride in company, each 
shooting his own shaft for his own hand. I dare uphold my 
arrow for twenty marks of gold, and my white Alan, against 
thy Barbary bay. Darest thou, Sir Walter ?" 

"I know not that — I dare not!" answered Tyrrel; "but 
your grace wagers high, nor will I lightly lose Bay Barbary : 
if so our wager stand, I shoot no roving shaft." 

" Shoot as thou wilt, so stands it !" 

" Amen !" cried Tyrrel, " and I doubt not to hear your grace 
confess Tyrrel hath struck the lordlier quarry." 

" Away, then, all ! away !" and, setting spurs to his curvet- 
ing horse, the monarch led the way at a hard gallop, followed 
by all his train — a long and bright procession, their gay plumes 
and many-colored garments offering a lively contrast to the 
deep, leafy verdure of July, and their clear weapons glancing 
lifelike to the sunshine. 

3 



50 THE ERRING ARROW. 

They had careered along, with merriment and music, perhaps 
three miles into the forest, when the deep baying of a hound 
was heard, at some short distance to the right, from a thick 
verge of coppice. Instantly the king curbed in his fiery horse, 
and raised his hand on high, waving a silent halt. " Ha ! have 
we outlaws here ?" he whispered close in the ear of Tyrrel. 
" 'Fore God, but they shall rue it !" 

Scarcely had he spoken, when a buck burst from a thicket, 
and, ere it made three bounds, leaped high into the air and fell, 
its heart pierced through and through by the unerring shaft of 
an outlying ranger, who the next instant stepped out of his cov- 
ert, and, catching sight of the gay cavalcade confronting him — 
the sounds of whose approach he must have overlooked entirely 
in the excitement of his sport — turned hastily as if to fly. But 
it was all too late : a dozen of the king's retainers had dashed 
their rowels into their horses' flanks the instant he appeared, 
and scarcely had he discovered their advance before he was 
their prisoner. 

"A Saxon, by my soul," cried Rufus, with a savage scowl, 
" taken red-hand, and in the fact ! Out with thy wood-knife, 
Damian ! By the most holy Virgin, we will first mar his ar- 
chery, and then present him with such a taste of venison as 
shall, I warrant me, appease his hankering for one while. Off 
with his thumb and finger ! off with them speedily, I say, an' 
thou wouldst 'scape his doom ! Ha ! grinnest thou, villain ?" 
he continued, as a contortion w 7 rithed the bold visage of his 
victim, w T ho, certain of his fate, and hopeless of resistance or 
of rescue, yielded with stubborn resolution to his torturers — 
" an' this doth make thee smile, thou shalt laugh outright short- 
ly ! Hence with him, now, Damian and Hugonet ; and thou, 
Raoul, away with thee — set toils enow, uncouple half a score 
of brachs and slowhounds, and see thou take me a right stag 
of ten ere vespers! — Barebacked shalt thou ride on him to 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 51 

the forest, thou unhanged Saxon thief, and see how his horned 
kinsmen will entreat thee ! See that the dog escape ye not, or 
ye shall swing for it. Bind him, and drag him hence to the old 
church of Lyme ; hold him there, on your lives, till sunset ! 
And ye — lead thither his wild charger: we will sup there 
upon the greensward, as we return to Malwood, and thou shalt 
make us merry with thy untutored horsemanship. Now for 
our wager, Walter ! Forward — hurrah !" and on again they 
dashed, until they reached the choicest hunting-ground of all 
that spacious woodland — the desolate and desert spot where 
once had stood the fairest village of the land. 

Unroofed and doorless, in different stages of decay, a score 
or two of cottages, once hospitable, happy homes of a free peas- 
antry, stood here and there amid the brushwood which had 
encroached upon the precincts ; while in the midst the dese- 
crated church of Lyme reared its gray tower, now overgrown 
with ivy, and crumbling in silent ruin. Upon the cross which 
crowned the lowly tower, there sat, as they approached, a soli- 
tary raven — nor, though the whoop and horn rang close below 
his perch, did he show any sign of wildness or of fear ; but, 
rising slowly on his wing, flapped round and round in two or 
three slow circles, and then with a hoarse croak resumed his 
station. The raven was a favorite bird with the old hunters ; 
and when the deer was slain he had his portion, thence named 
" the raven's bone." Indeed, so usual was the practice, that 
this bird, the wildest by its nature of all the things that fly, 
would rarely shun a company which its sagacity descried to be 
pursuers of the sylvan game. 

" What ! sittest thou there, old black-frock, in our presence ?" 
shouted the king, bending his bow ; " but we will teach thee 
manners !" Still, the bird moved not, but again sent forth his 
ominous and sullen croak above the jocund throng. The bow 
was raised — the cord was drawn back to the monarch's ear: 



52 THE ERRING ARROW. 

it twanged, and the next moment the hermit-bird came fluttering 
down, transfixed by the long shaft, with painful and discordant 
cries, and fell close at the feet of Rufus's charger. 

There was a murmur in the crowd ; and one, a page who 
waited on the king, whispered with a pale face and agitated 
voice into his fellow's ear : " I have heard say — 

' Whose shaft 'gainst raven's life is set, 
Shaft's feather his heart-blood shall wet !' " 

The red king caught the whisper, and turning with an in- 
flamed countenance and flashing eye on the unwitting wakener 
of his wrath — " Dastard and fool !" he shouted ; and, clinching 
his gloved hand, he dealt the boy so fierce a blow upon the 
chest, that he fell to the earth like a lifeless body, plunging so 
heavily upon the sod head-foremost, that the blood gushed from 
nose, ears, mouth, and he lay senseless and inanimate as the 
surrounding clay. With a low, sneering laugh, the tyrant once 
more spurred his charger forward, amid the smothered execra- 
tions of his Norman followers, boiling with indignation for that 
one of their noble and victorious race should have endured the 
foul wrong of a blow, though it w r ere dealt him by a monarch's 
hand. And there were scowling brows, and teeth set hard, 
among the very noblest of his train ; and, as the glittering band 
swept on, the father of the injured boy — a dark-browed, aged 
veteran, who had couched lance at Hastings to win the throne 
of earth's most lovely island for that base tyrant's sire — reined 
in his horse, and, leaping to the earth, upraised the body from 
the gory turf, and wiped away the crimson stream from the pale 
features, and dashed pure water, brought from a neighboring 
brooklet in a comrade's bacinet, upon the fair young brow — 
but it was all in vain ! The dying child rolled upward his faint 
eyes ; they rested on the anxious lineaments of that war-beaten 
sire, who, stern and fiery to all else, had ever to that motherless 
boy been soft and tender as a woman. " Father," he gasped, 



THE MURDERED PAGE. 53 

while a brief, painful smile illuminated with a transient gleam 
his ashy lips — " mercy, kind mother Mary ! Father — father" 
— the words died in the utterance ; the dim eyes wavered — 
closed ; the head fell back upon the stalwart arm that had sup- 
ported it, and, with one long and quivering convulsion, the 
innocent soul departed ! 

Some three or four — inferior barons of the train, yet each 
a gentleman of lineage and prowess in the field, each one in 
his own estimate a prince's peer — had paused around the des- 
olate father and his murdered child ; and now, as the old man 
gazed hopelessly upon the features of his first-born and his 
only, the sympathy which had moistened their hard eyes and 
relaxed their iron features was swallowed up in a fierce glare 
of indignation, irradiating their scarred and war-seamed visages 
with that sublime expression, from which, when glowing on 
the face of a resolute and fearless man, the wildest savage of 
the forest will shrink in mute dismay. The father, after a long 
and fearful struggle with his more tender feelings — wringing his 
hard hands till the blood-drops started redly from beneath every 
nail — lifted his face, more pale and ashy in its hues than that 
of the inanimate form which he had loved so tenderly ; and as 
he lifted it he caught the fierce glow mantling on the front of 
each well-tried companion, and his own features lightened with 
the self-same blaze : his hand sank downward to the hilt of the 
long poniard at his girdle, and the fingers worked with a con- 
vulsive tremor as they griped the well-known pommel, and an 
exulting smile curled his mustached lip, prophetic of revenge. 
Once more he bowed above the dead ; he laid his broad hand 
on the pulseless heart, and printed a long kiss on the forehead ; 
then lifting, with as much tenderness as though they still had 
sense and feeling, the relics of the only thing he loved on earth, 
he bore them from the roadside into the shelter of a tangled 
coppice ; unbuckled his long military mantle, and spreading it 



54 THE ERRING ARROW. 

above them, secured it at each corner by heavy stones, a tem- 
porary shelter from insult or intrusion. This done, in total 
silence he rejoined his friends, who had foreborne to offer aid 
where they perceived it would be held superfluous. Without 
one word, he grasped the bridle of his charger, tightened his 
girths, and then, setting no foot to stirrup, vaulted almost with- 
out an effort into the steel-bound demipique. Raising his arm 
aloft, he pointed into the long aisles of the forest, wherein the 
followers of Rufus had long since disappeared. 

" Our thoughts are one !" he hissed, in accents scarcely ar- 
ticulate, between his grinded teeth ; " what need of words ? 
Are not we soldiers, gentlemen, and Normans, and shall not 
deeds speak for us ?" 

Truly he said, their thoughts were one ! — for each had sev- 
erally steeled his heart as by a common impulse : and now, 
without a word, or sign, or any interchange of sentiments, feel- 
ing that each understood the other, they wheeled their horses 
on the tyrant's track, and at a hard trot rode away, resolved on 
instant vengeance. 

Meanwhile, the hunters had arrived at their appointed ground. 
The slowhounds were uncoupled and cast loose ; varlets with 
hunting-poles, and mounted grooms, pressed through the under- 
wood ; while, in each open glade and riding of the forest, yeo- 
men were stationed with relays of tall and stately gazehounds, 
to slip upon the hart the instant he should break from the thick 
covert. The knights and nobles galloped off, each with his 
long-bow strung, and cloth-yard arrow notched and ready, to 
posts assigned to them — some singly, some in pairs; all was 
replete with animation and with fiery joy. 

According to the monarch's pleasure, Tyrrel rode at his 
bridle-hand, for that day's space admitted as his comrade and 
his rival. Two splendid bloodhounds, coal-black, but tawny on 
the muzzle and the breast, so accurately trained that they re- 



THE CHASE. 55 

quired no leash to check their ardor, ran at the red king's heel ; 
but neither page nor squire, such was his special mandate, ac- 
companied their master. And now the loud shouts of the for- 
esters and the deep baying of the pack gave note that the chase 
was on foot ; and by the varied cadences and different points 
whence pealed the soul-exciting clamors, Rufus, a skilful and 
sagacious sportsman, immediately perceived that two if not three 
of the noble animals they hunted must have been roused at 
once. For a few seconds he stood upright in his stirrups, his 
hand raised to his ear, lest the slight summer breeze should 
interrupt the welcome sounds. 

" This way," he said, in low and guarded tones, " this way 
they bend ; and with the choicest buck — hark to old Hubert's 
holloa! and there, there, Tyrrel, list to that burst — list to that 
long, sharp yell ! Beshrew my soul, if that be not stanch Pala- 
mon — that hound is worth ten thousand. Ha! they are now 
at fault. Again ! brave Palamon again ! and now they turn ; 
hark how the echoes roar ! Ay, they are crossing now the 
Deer-leap dingle ; and now, now, as their notes ring out dis- 
tinct and tuneful, they gain the open moorland. Spur, Tyrrel, 
for your life ! spur, spur ! we see him not again till we reach 
Bolderwood" — and, with the word, he raised his bugle to his 
lips, and wound it lustily and well till every oak replied to the 
long flourish. 

Away they flew, driving their foaming chargers, now through 
the tangled underwood with tightened reins, now with free 
heads careering along the level glades, now sweeping over the 
wide brooks that intersect the forest as though their steeds 
were winged, and now, at distant intervals, pausing to catch the 
fitful music of the pack. After a furious chase of at least two 
hours, the sounds still swelling on their right, nearer and nearer 
as they rode the farther, the avenue through which they had 
been galloping for many minutes was intersected at right angles 



56 THE ERRING ARROW. 

by one yet wider though neglected, and, as it would seem, dis- 
used, for many marshy pools might be seen glittering to the 
sun, which was now fast descending to the westward, and many 
plants of ash and tufted hazels had sprung up, marring the 
smoothness of its surface. Here, by a simultaneous motion, and 
as it seemed obedient to a common thought, both riders halted. 

" He must cross, Tyrrel, he must cross here," cried the ex- 
cited monarch; " ay, by the life of Him who made us — and 
that before we be ten minutes older. I will take stand even 
here, where I command both alleys : ride thou some fifty yards 
or so, to the right ; stand by yon rowan sapling. And mark 
me — see'st thou yon scathed but giant oak? — Now, if he pass 
on this side, mine is the first shot ; if on the other, thine. I 
will not balk thy fortunes ; meddle not thou with mine !" 

They parted — the king sitting like a statue on his well- 
trained but fiery Andalusian, the rein thrown loosely on the 
horse's neck, and the bow already half bent in the vigorous 
right hand ; the baron riding, as he had been commanded, down 
the neglected avenue, till he had reached the designated tree, 
when he wheeled round his courser and remained likewise mo- 
tionless, facing the king, at that brief interval. 

Nearer and nearer came the baying of the pack, while ever 
and anon a sharp and savage treble, mixed with the deeper 
notes, gave token to the skilful foresters that they were running 
with the game in view. Nearer it came, and nearer ; and now 
it was so close, that not an echo could be traced amid the 
stormy music : but with the crash no human shout was blended, 
no bugle lent its thrilling voice to the blithe uproar, no clang 
of hoofs announced the presence of pursuers. All, even the 
best and boldest riders, saving those two who waited there in 
calm, deliberate impatience, had long been foiled by the quick 
turns and undiminished pace maintained by the stout quarry. 

The crashing of the branches might now be heard distinctly, 



THE RIVAL ARCHERS. 57 

as they were separated by some body in swift motion ; and next 
the laboring sobs of a beast overdone with toil and anguish ; 
the waving of the coppice followed in a long, sinuous line, re- 
sembling in some degree the wake of a fleet ship among the 
rolling billows. Midway it furrowed the dense thicket between 
the king and Tyrrel, but with an inclination toward the former. 
His quick eye noted his advantage : his bow rose slowly and 
with a steady motion to its level ; it was drawn to its full ex- 
tent — the forked steel head pressing against the polished yew, 
the silken string stretched home to the right ear. The bram- 
bles were forced violently outward, and with a mighty but labo- 
rious effort the hunted stag dashed into the more open space. 
Scarcely had he cleared the thicket, before a sharp and ringing 
twang announced the shot of Rufus. So true had been his aim, 
that the barbed arrow grazed the withers of the game — a hart 
of grease, with ten tines on his noble antlers — leaving a gory 
line where it had razed the skin ; and so strong was the arm 
that launched it, that the shaft, glancing downward, owing to 
the king's elevation and the short distance of the mark at which 
he aimed, was buried nearly to the feathers in the soft, mossy 
greensward. The wounded stag bounded at least six feel into 
the air ; and Tyrrel, deeming the work already done, lowered 
his weapon. But the king's sight was truer. Raising his 
bridle-hand to screen his eyes from the rays, now nearly level, 
of the setting sun — " Ho!" he cried, "Tyrrel, shoot — in the 
fiend's name shoot !" 

Before the words had reached his ear, the baron saw his 
error ; for, instantly recovering, the gallant deer dashed onward, 
passing immediately beneath the oak-tree which Rufus had 
already mentioned. Raising his bow with a rapidity which 
seemed incredible, Tyrrel discharged his arrow. It struck, 
just at the correct elevation, against the gnarled trunk of the 
giant tree ; but, swift as was its flight, the motion of the wound- 

3* 



58 THE ERRING ARROW. 

ed deer was yet more rapid : he had already crossed the open 
glade, and was lost in the thicket opposite. Diverted from its 
course, but unabated in its force, the Norman shaft sped on- 
ward ; full, full and fairly it plunged into the left side of the 
hapless monarch, unguarded by the arm which he had cast 
aloft. The keen point actually drove clear through his body, 
and through his stout buff coat, coming out over his right hip ; 
while the goose-feather, which had winged it to its royal mark, 
was literally dabbled in his life-blood ! 

Without a breath, a groan, a struggle, the Conqueror's son 
dropped lifeless from his saddle. His horse, freed from the 
pressure of the master-limbs that had so well controlled him, 
reared upright as the monarch fell, and, with a wild, quick snort 
of terror, rushed furiously away into the forest. The blood- 
hounds had already, by the fierce cunning of their race, dis- 
covered that their game was wounded, and had joined freshly 
with his old pursuers ; while he, who did the deed, gazed for 
one moment horror-stricken on the work of his right hand, and 
then, without so much as drawing nigh to see if anything of life 
remained to his late master, casting his fatal bow into the bushes, 
put spurs to his unwearied horse, and drew not bridle till he 
reached the coast ; whence, taking ship, he crossed the seas, 
and fell in Holy Land, hoping by many deeds of wilful blood- 
shed — such is the inconsistency of man — to win God's pardon 
for one involuntary slaughter. 

Hours rolled away. The sun had set already, and his last 
gleams were rapidly departing from the skies, nor had the 
moon yet risen, when six horsemen came slowly, searching as 
it were for traces on the earth, up the same alley along which 
Tyrrel and the king had ridden with such furious speed since 
noontide. The lingering twilight did not suffice to show the 
features of the group, but the deep tones of the second rider 
were those of the bereaved and vengeful father. 



VENGEANCE FORESTALLED. 59 

" How now ?" he said, addressing his words to the man 
who led the way, mounted upon a shaggy forest-pony ; " how 
now, Sir Saxon! — is it for this we saved thee from the ty- 
rant's hangmen, that thou shouldst prove a blind guide in this 
matter ?" 

" Norman," replied the other, still scanning, as he spoke, the 
ground dinted and torn by the fresh hoof-tracks, " my heart 
thirsts for vengeance not less than thine ; nor is our English 
blood less stanch, although it be less fiery, than the hottest 
stream that swells the veins of your proud race ! I tell you, 
Rufus hath passed here, and he hath not turned back. You 
shall have your revenge !" 

Even as he spoke, the beast which he bestrode set his feet 
firm and snuffed the air, staring as though his eyeballs would 
start from their sockets, and uttering a tremulous, low neigh. 
" Blood hath been shed here ! and that, I trow, since sunset ! 
Jesu ! what have we now ?" he cried, as his eye fell upon the 
carcass that so lately had exulted in the possession of health, 
and energy, and strength, and high dominion. " By Thor the 
Thunderer, it is the tyrant's corpse !" • 

" And slain," replied the father, " slain by another's hand than 
mine ! Curses, ten thousand curses, on him who shot this 
shaft !" While he was speaking he dismounted, approached 
the body of his destined victim, and gazed with an eye of hatred 
most insatiably savage upon the rigid face and stiffening limbs ; 
then drawing his broad dagger — " I have sworn !" he muttered, 
as he besmeared its blade with the dark, curdled gore — "I 
have sworn ! Lie there and rot" he added, spurning the body 
with his foot. " And now we must away, for we are known 
and noted; and, whoso did the deed, 'tis we shall bear the 
blame of it. We must see other lands. I will but leave a 
brief word with the monks of Lymington, that they commit my 
poor boy to a hallowed tomb, and then farewell, fair England !" 



60 THE ERRING ARROW. 

And they, too, rode away, nor were they ever seen again on 
British soil ; nor — though shrewd search was made for them 
until the confessor of Tyrrel, when that bold spirit had departed, 
revealed the real slayer of the king — did any rumor of their 
residence or fortunes reach any mortal ear. 

The moon rose over the New Forest broad and unclouded, 
and the dew fell heavy over glade and woodland. The night 
wore onward, and the bright planet set, and one by one the stars 
went out — and still the king lay there untended and alone. 
The morning mists were rising, when the rumbling sound of a 
rude cart awoke the echoes of that fearful solitude. A charcoal- 
burner of the forest was returning from his nocturnal labors, 
whistling cheerfully the burden of some Saxon ballad, as he 
threaded the dark mazes of the green-wood. A wiry-looking 
cur — maimed, in obedience to the forest-law, lest he should 
chase the deer reserved to the proud conquerors alone — fol- 
lowed the footsteps of his master, who had already passed the 
corpse, when a half-startled yelp, followed upon the instant by 
a most melancholy howl, attracted the attention of the peasant. 
After a moment's search he found, although he did not recog- 
nise, the cause of his dog's terror ; and, casting it upon his 
loaded cart, bore it to the same church whereat but a few hours 
before the living sovereign had determined to glut his fierce 
eyes with the death-pangs of his fellow-man. Strange are the 
ways of Providence. That destined man lived after his in- 
tended torturer ! And, stranger yet, freed from his bonds, that 
he might minister unto the slaughter of that self-same torturer, 
he found his purpose frustrate — frustrate, as it were, by its ac- 
complishment — his meditated deed anticipated, his desperate 
revenge forestalled. — " Verily, vengeance is mine," saith the 
Lord, " and I will repay it." 



THE SAXON PRELATE'S DOOM. 



"Die, prophet, in thy speech!" — King Henry VI. 

The mightiest monarch of his age, sovereign of England- — 
as his proud grandsire made his vaunt of yore — by right of the 
sword's edge ; grand duke of Normandy, by privilege of blood ; 
and liege lord of Guienne, by marriage with its powerful her- 
itress ; the bravest, the most fortunate, the wisest of the kings 
of Europe, Henry the Second, held his court for the high festi- 
val of Christmas in the fair halls of Rouen. The banquet was 
already over, the revelry was at the highest, still, the gothic 
arches ringing with the merriment, the laughter, and the 
blended cadences of many a minstrel's harp, of many a trou- 
vere's lay. Suddenly, while the din was at the loudest, pier- 
cing through all the mingled sounds, a single trumpet's note was 
heard — wailing, prolonged, and ominous — as was the chill it 
struck to every heart in that bright company — of coming evil. 
During the pause which followed, for at that thrilling blast the 
mirth and song were hushed as if by instinct — a bustle might 
be heard below, the tread of many feet, and the discordant 
tones of many eager voices. The great doors were thrown 
open, not with the stately ceremonial that befitted the occasion, 
but with a noisy and irreverent haste that proved the urgency 
or the importance of the new-comers. Then, to the wonder 



62 THE SAXON PRELATE'S DOOM. 

of all present, there entered — not in their wonted pomp, with 
stole, and mitre, crozier dalmatique and ring, but in soiled vest- 
ments, travel-worn and dusty, with features haggard from fa- 
tigue, and sharpened by anxiety and fear — six of the noblest 
of old England's prelates, led by the second dignitary of the 
church, York's proud archbishop. Hurrying forward to the 
dais, where Henry sat in state, they halted all together at the 
step, and in one voice exclaimed : — 

" Fair sir, and king, not for ourselves alone, but for the holy 
church, for your own realm and crown, for your own honor, 
your own safety, we beseech you — " 

" What means this, holy fathers ?" Henry cried, hastily, and 
half alarmed, as it would seem, by the excited language of the 
churchmen. "What means this vehemence — or who hath 
dared to wrong ye, and for why ?" 

" For that, at your behest, we dared to crown the youthful 
king, your son ! Such, sire, is our offence. Our wrong — 
that we your English prelates are excommunicated, and — " 

" Now, by the eyes of God !"* exclaimed the king, breaking 
abruptly in upon the bishop's speech, his noble features crim- 
soned by the indignant blood, that rushed to them at mention 
of this foul affront, " Now, by the eyes of God, if all who have 
consented to his consecration be accursed, then am I so myself!" 

" Nor is this all," replied the prelate, well pleased to note 
the growing anger of the sovereign, nor is this all the wrong. 
The same bold man, who did you this affront, an' you look not 
the sharper, will light a blaze in England that shall consume 
right speedily your royal crown itself. He marches to and 
fro, with troops of horse, and bands of armed footmen, stirring 
the Saxon churls against the gentle blood of Normandy, nay, 
seeking even to gain entrance into your garrisons and castles." 

* For this strange but authentic oath, see Thierry's " Norman Conquest," 
whence most of these details are taken. 



THE BANQUET-HALL DESERTED. 63 

" Do I hear right," shouted the fiery prince, striking his 
hand upon the board with such fierce vehemence, that every 
flask and tankard rang. " Do I hear right — and is it but a 
dream that I am England's king ? What ! one base vassal ; 
one who has fattened on the bread of our ill-wasted charity ; 
one beggar, who first came to our court with all his fortunes on 
his back, bestriding a galled, spavined jade ; one wretch like 
this insult at once aline of sovereign princes — trample a realm 
beneath his feet — and go unpunished and scathe-free ? What ! 
was there not one man, one only, of the hordes of recreant knights 
who feast around my board, to free his monarch from a shave- 
ling who dishonors and defies him ? Break off the feast — 
break ofF, I say ! no time for revelry and wine ! — To council, 
lords, to council ! We must indeed bestir us, an' we would 
hold the crown our grandsire won, not for himself alone, nor 
for his race — who, by God's grace, will wear it, spite priest, car- 
dinal, or pope — but for the gentle blood of Norman chivalry!" 

Rising at once, he led the way to council ; and, with wild 
haste and disarray, the company dispersed. But as the hall 
grew thin, four knights remained behind in close converse — 
so deep, so earnest, that they were left alone, when all the rest, 
ladies, and cavaliers, and chamberlains, and pages, had departed, 
and the vast gallery, which had so lately rung with every vari- 
ous sound of human merriment, was silent as the grave. There 
was a strange and almost awful contrast between the strong and 
stately forms of the four barons — their deep and energetic 
whispers, the fiery glances of their angry eyes, the fierce ges- 
ticulations of their muscular and well-turned limbs — and the 
deserted splendors of that royal hall : the vacant throne, the 
long array of seats ; the gorgeous plate, flagons, and cups, and 
urns of gold and marquetry ; the lights still glowing, as it were, 
in mockery over the empty board; the wine unpoured — the 
harps untouched and voiceless. 



64 THE SAXON PRELATE'S DOOM. 

" Be it so — be it so !" exclaimed, in louder tones than they 
had used before, one, the most striking in appearance of the 
group ; " be it so — let us swear ! Richard le Breton, Hugues 
de Morville, William de Traci — even as I shall swear, swear 
ye — by God, and by our trusty blades, and by our Norman 
honor !" 

" We will," cried all, " we swear ! we be not recreant, nor 
craven, as our good swords shall witness !" 

" Thus, then," continued the first speaker, drawing his sword, 
and grasping a huge cup of wine, " thus, then, I, Reginald Fitz- 
Urse, for mine own part, and for each one and all of ye, do 
swear — so help me God and our good Lady! — never to touch 
the winecup ; never to bend before the shrine ; never to close 
the eyes in sleep ; never to quit the saddle, or unbelt the brand ; 
never to pray to God ; never to hope for heaven — until the 
wrong we reck of be redressed ! — until the insult done our sov- 
ereign be avenged ! — until the life-blood of his foeman stream 
on our battle-swords as streams this nobler wine !" 

Then, with the words — for not he only, but each one of the 
four, holding their long, two-handed blades extended at arms' 
length before them with all their points in contact, and in the 
other hand grasping the brimming goblets, had gone through, 
in resolute, unflinching tones, the fearful adjuration — then, with 
the words, they all dashed down the generous liquor on the 
weapons, watched it in silence as it crimsoned them from point 
to hilt, and sheathing them, all purple as they were, hurried, 
not from the hall alone, but from the palace ; mounted their 
fleetest war-steeds, and, that same night, rode furiously away 
toward the nearest sea. 

The fifth day was in progress after King Henry's banquet, 
when, at the hour of noon, four Norman knights, followed by 
fifty men-at-arms, sheathed cap-a-pie in mail, arrayed beneath 
the banner of Fitz-Urse, entered the town of Canterbury at a 



THOMAS A-BECKET. 65 

hard gallop. The leaders of the band alone were clad in garbs 
of peace, bearing no weapon but their swords, and singularly 
ill-accoutred for horse-exercise, being attired in doublets of rich 
velvet, with hose of cloth of gold or silver, as if in preparation 
for some high and festive meeting. Yet was it evident that 
they had ridden miles in that unsuitable apparel ; for the rich 
velvet was besmeared with many a miry stain, and the hose 
dashed with blood, which had been drawn profusely by the 
long rowels of their gilded spurs. 

Halting in serried order at the market-cross, the leader of 
the party summoned, by an equerry, the city mayor to hear the 
orders of the king; and, when that officer appeared — having 
commanded him, " on bis allegiance, to call his men to arms, and 
take such steps as should assuredly prevent the burghers of the 
town from raising any tumult on that day, whate'er might come 
to pass" — with his three friends, and twelve, the stoutest, of 
the men-at-arms who followed in their train, rode instantly 
away to the archbishop's palace. 

The object of their deadly hatred, when the four knights ar- 
rived, was in the act of finishing his noonday meal ; and all 
his household were assembled at the board, from which he had 
just risen. There was no sign of trepidation, no symptom of 
surprise, much less of fear or consternation, in his aspect or 
demeanor, as one by one his visiters stalked unannounced into 
the long apartment. Yet was there much indeed in the strange 
guise wherein they came — in their disordered habits, in the 
excitement visibly depicted on their brows, haggard from want 
of sleep, pale with fatigue and labor, yet resolute, and stern, 
and terse, with the resolve of their dread purpose — to have 
astonished, nay, dismayed the spirit of one less resolute in the 
defence of what he deemed the right than Thomas a-Becket. 
Silently, one by one, they entered, the leader halting opposite 
the prelate, with his arms folded on his breast, and his three 



66 THE SAXON PRELATE'S DOOM. 

comrades forming as it were in a half-circle around him. Not 
one of them removed the bonnet from his brow, or bowed the 
knee on entering, or offered any greeting, whether to the tem- 
poral rank or spiritual station of their intended victim ; but 
gazed on him with a fixed sternness that was far more awful 
than any show of violence. This dumb-show, although it needs 
must occupy some time in the description, had lasted perhaps 
a minute, when the bold prelate broke the silence, addressing 
them in clear, harmonious tones, and with an air as dignified 
and placid as though he had been bidding them to share the 
friendly banquet. 

" Fair sirs," he said, " I bid ye welcome ; although, in truth, 
the manner of your entrance be not in all things courteous, nor 
savoring of that respect which should be paid, if not to me — 
who am but as a worm, the meanest of His creatures — yet to 
the dignity whereunto he has raised me ! Natheless, I bid ye 
hail ! Please ye disclose the business whereon ye now have 
come to me." 

Still not a word did "they reply — but seated themselves all 
unbidden, still glaring on him with fixed eyes, ominous of evil. 
At length Fitz-Urse addressed him, speaking abruptly, and in 
tones so hoarse and hollow — the natural consequence of his 
extreme exertions, four days and nights having been actually 
passed in almost constant travel — that his most intimate asso- 
ciate could not have recognised his voice. 

" We come," he said, " on the king's part, to take — and that, 
too, on the instant — some order with your late proceedings : 
to have the excommunicated presently absolved ; to see the 
bishops, who have been suspended, forthwith re-established ; 
and to hear what you may now allege concerning your design 
against your sovereign lord and master !" 

" It is not I," Thomas replied, still calmer and more dignified 
than the fierce spirits who addressed him, " it is not I who 



SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL RIGHTS. 67 

have done this. It is the sovereign pontiff, God's own supreme 
vicegerent, who, of his own will, excommunicated my late broth- 
er of York. He alone, therefore, can absolve him. I have no 
power in't. As for the rest, let them but make submission, and 
straightway shall they be restored !" 

" From whom, then," Reginald Fitz-Urse demanded, " from 
whom, then, hold you your archbishopric — from England's 
king, or from the pope of Rome V 

" My spiritual rights, of God and of the pope — my temporal 
privileges, of the king," was the prompt answer. 

"The king, then, gave you not V the baron asked again. 
" Beware, I warn you, beware how you do answer me : the 
king, I say, gave you not all that you enjoy ?" 

" He did not," answered Becket, without moving a single 
muscle of his composed but haughty countenance ; although, at 
the reply, the fiery temper of his unwelcome visiters was made 
more clearly manifest, as a deep, angry murmur burst simulta- 
neously from all their lips, and they wrung with fierce gestures 
their gloved hands, as if it was with difficulty they restrained 
themselves from violence more open in its character. 

" Ye threaten me, I well believe," exclaimed the stately pre- 
late, " but it is vain and useless. Were all the swords in 
England brandished against my head, ye should gain nothing, 
nothing from me." 

" We will do more than threaten," answered Fitz-Urse ; and 
rising from his seat, rushed out of the apartment, followed by 
his companions, crying aloud, even before they crossed the 
threshold, " To-arms, Normans, to-arms !" 

The doors were closed behind them, and barred instantly 
with the most jealous care ; while Reginald and the conspira- 
tors, meeting the guard whom they had left without, armed 
themselves cap-a-pie in the courtyard before the palace-gates, 
as if for instant battle, with helmet, hood-of-mail, and hauberk ; 



68 THE SAXON PRELATE'S DOOM. 

their triangular steel-plated shields hanging about their necks ; 
their legs protected by mail-hose, fitting as closely and as flexible 
as modern stockings ; their huge two-handed swords belted about 
them in such fashion, that their cross-guarded hilts came over 
their left shoulders, while their points clanked against the spur 
on their right heels. 

There was no pause ; for, snatching instantly an axe from 
the hands of a carpenter who chanced to be at work in the 
courtyard, Fitz-Urse assailed the gate. Strong as it was, it 
creaked and groaned beneath the furious blows, and the long 
corridors within rolled back the threatening sounds in deep and 
hollow echoes. Within the palace all was confusion and dis- 
may, and every face was pale and ghastly, save his alone who 
had the cause for fear. 

" Fly ! fly, my lord !" cried the assistants, breathless with 
terror ; " fly to the altar ! There, there, at least, shall you be 
safe !" 

" Never !" the prelate answered, his bold spirit as self-pos- 
sessed and calm in that most imminent peril as though he had 
been bred from childhood upward to the performance of high 
deeds and daring ; " never will I turn back from that which I 
have set myself to do ! God, if it be his pleasure, shall pre- 
serve me from yet greater straits than these ; and if it be not 
so his will to do, then God forbid I should gainsay him !" Nor 
would he stir one foot, until the vesper-bell, rung by the sacris- 
tan, unwitting of his superior's peril, began to chime from the 
near walls of the cathedral. " It is the hour," he quietly ob- 
served, on hearing the sweet cadence of the bells, " it is the 
hour of prayer ; my duty calls me. Give me my vestments — 
carry my cross before me !" And, attiring himself as though 
nothing of unusual moment were impending, he traversed, with 
steps even slower than his wont, the cloister leading from his 
dwelling to the abbey ; though, ere he left the palace, the din 



THE SANCTUARY INVADED. 69 

of blows had ceased, and the fierce shout of the assailants gave 
token that the door had yielded. Chiding his servitors for their 
excess of terror, as unworthy of their sacred calling, he still 
walked slowly onward, while the steel-shod footsteps of his 
foemen might be heard clashing on the pavement but a few 
yards behind him. He reached the door of the cathedral ; 
entered without casting so much as one last glance behind ; 
passed up the nave, and going up the steps of the high altar, 
separated from the body of the church by a slight rail of orna- 
mental iron-work, commenced the service of the day. 

Scarcely had he uttered the first words, when Reginald, 
sheathed, as has been heretofore described, in complete pano- 
ply, with his two-handed sword already naked, rushed into the 
cathedral. 

" To me !" he cried, with a fierce shout, " to me, valiant and 
loyal servants of the king !" while close behind him followed, 
in like array, with flashing eyes, and inflamed visages, and 
brandished weapons, his sworn confederates ; and without the 
gates their banded men-at-arms stood in a serried circle, defy- 
ing all assistance from the town. Again his servitors entreated 
Becket to preserve himself, by seeking refuge in the dark crypts 
beneath the chancel, where he might rest concealed in abso- 
lute security until the burghers should be aroused to rescue ; 
or by ascending the intricate and winding turret-stairs to the 
cathedral-roof, whence he might summon aid ere he could pos- 
sibly be overtaken : but it was all in vain. Confiding in the 
goodness of his cause, perhaps expecting supernatural assist- 
ance, the daring prelate silenced their prayers by a contemptu- 
ous refusal ; and even left the altar, to prevent one of the monks 
from closing the weak, trellised gates, which marked the holi- 
est precincts. Meanwhile, unmoved in their fell purpose, the 
Normans were at hand. 

" Where is the traitor ?" cried Fitz-Urse, but not a voice re- 



70 THE SAXON PRELATE'S DOOM. 

plied ; and the unwonted tones were vocal yet beneath the 
vaulted roof in lingering echoes, when he again exclaimed, 
" Where — where is the archbishop ?" 

" Here stands he," Becket answered, drawing his lofty per- 
son up to its full height, and spreading his arms forth with a 
gesture of perfect majesty. " Here stands he, but no traitor ! 
What do ye in God's house in such apparel ? what is your 
will, or purpose ?" 

" That you die, presently !" was the reply, enforced by the 
uplifted weapon and determined features of the savage baron. 

" I am resigned," returned the prelate, the calm patience of 
the martyr blent with a noble daring that would have well be- 
come a warrior on the battle-field. " Ye shall not see me fly 
before your swords ! But in the name of the all-powerful God, 
whom ye dishonor and defy, I do command ye injure no one 
of my companions, layman or priest." His words were inter- 
rupted by a heavy blow across his shoulders, delivered, with 
the flat of his huge sword, by Reginald. 

u Yly !" he said, " fly, priest, or you are dead !" But the 
archbishop moved not a step, spoke not a syllable. " Drag him 
hence, comrades," continued the last speaker ; "away with him 
beyond the threshold — we may not smite him here !" 

" Here — here, or nowhere !" the archbishop answered — 
" here, in the very presence, and before the altar, and the im- 
age, of our God !" And, as he spoke, he seized the railings 
with both hands, set his feet firm, and, being of a muscular and 
powerful frame, sustained by daring courage and highly-wrought 
excitement, he succeeded in maintaining his position, in spite 
of the united efforts of the four Norman warriors. 

Meanwhile, all the companions of the prelate had escaped, 
byways known only to themselves — all but one faithful follow- 
er — the Saxon, Edward Grim, his cross-bearer since his first 
elevation to the see of Canterbury — the same who had so 



MURDER OF THOMAS A-BECKET. 71 

boldly spoken out after the conference of Clarendon ; and the 
conspirators began to be alarmed lest, if their purpose were not 
speedily accomplished, the rescue should arrive and frustrate 
their intentions. Their blood, moreover, was heated by the 
struggle ; and their fierce natures, never much restrained by 
awe or reverence for things divine, burst through all bonds. 

" Here, then, if it so please you ! — here !" cried "William de 
Traci, striking, as he spoke, a blow with the full sweep of both 
his arms wielding his ponderous weapon, at the defenceless 
victim's head. But the bold Saxon suddenly stretched out his 
arm to guard his beloved master. Down came the mighty 
blow — but not for that did the true servitor withdraw his naked 
limb — down came the mighty blow, and lopped the unflinching 
hand, sheer as the woodman's bill severs the hazel-twig ! 

Still, Becket stood unwounded. " Strike ! strike, you oth- 
ers !" shouted the Norman, as he grasped the maimed but still- 
resolved protector of his master, and held him off by the exertion 
of his entire strength ; " strike ! strike !" And they did strike, 
fearlessly — mercilessly ! Hugues de Morville smote him with 
a mace upon his temples, and he fell, stunned, but still alive, 
face downward on the pavement; and Reginald Fitz-Urse, 
whirling his espaldron around his head, brought it down with 
such reckless fury upon the naked skull, that the point clove 
right through it, down to the marble pavement, on which it yet 
alighted with a degree of violence so undiminished, that it was 
shivered to the very hilt, and the strong arms of him who 
wielded it were jarred up to the shoulders, as if by an elec- 
tric shock. One of the men-at-arms, who had rushed in 
during the struggle, spurned with his foot the motionless and 
senseless clay. 

" Thus perish all," he said, « all foemen of the king, and of 
the gentle Normans — all who dare, henceforth, to arouse the 
base and slavish Saxons against their free and princely masters !" 



72 THE SAXON PRELATE'S DOOM. 

Thus fell the Saxon prelate, ruthlessly butchered at the very- 
shrine of God — not so much that he was a Romish priest, and 
an upholder of the rights of Rome,«as that he was a Saxon- 
man, a vindicator of the liberties of England ! Yet, though the 
pope absolved that king whose cruel will had, in truth, done 
the deed, yet was that deed not unavenged. If the revolt and 
treachery of all most dear to him, the hatred of his very flesh 
and blood, the unceasing enmity of his own sons, a miserable 
old age, and a heart-broken death-bed — if these things may be 
deemed Heaven's vengeance upon murder — then, of a surely, 
that murder was avenged ! 



THE FATE OF THE BLANCHE NAVIRE.* 



" The bark that held a prince went down, 
The sweeping waves rolled on, 
And what was England's glorious crown 
To him who wept a son?" — Hemans. 

The earliest dawning of a December's morning had not yet 
tinged the eastern sky, when in the port of Barfleur the stirring 
bustle which precedes an embarkation broke loudly on the ear 
of all who were on foot at that unseemly hour ; nor were these 
few in number, for all the populution of that town — far more 
considerable than it appears at present, when mightier cities, 
some rendered so by the gigantic march of commerce, some by 
the puissant and creative hands of military despotism, have 
sprung on every side into existence, and overshadowed its an- 
tique renown — were hastening through the narrow streets tow- 
ard the water's edge. The many-paned, stone-latticed case- 
ments gleamed with a thousand lights, casting a cheerful glare 
over the motley multitude which swarmed before them with all 
the frolic merriment of an unwonted holyday. All classes and 
all ranks might there be seen, of every age and sex : barons 

* The title given by the chroniclers to this ill-fated vessel is " The Blanche 
Nrf," the latter word being the old French for the modern term, which we have 
substituted. Singularly enough, the ancient word survives as the name of a 
piece of antique gold plate modelled like a ship, in which the napkins of the royal 
table are served in the high ceremonials of the court of France. 

4 



74 THE FATE OF THE BLANCHE NAVIRE. 

and lords of high degree, clad in the rich attires of a half-bar- 
barous yet gorgeous age, mounted on splendid horses, and at- 
tended by long retinues of armed and liveried vassals ; ladies 
and demoiselles of birth and beauty curbing their Spanish jen- 
nets, and casting sidelong looks of love toward the favored 
knights curveting in the conscious state of proud humility be- 
side their bridle-reins — as clearly visible as at high noon, in 
the broad radiance of the torches that accompanied their prog- 
ress ; while all around them and behind crowded the humbler 
throng of mariners and artisans, with here a solemn burgher, 
proud in his velvet pourpoint and his golden chain, and there 
a barefoot monk, far prouder in his frock of sackcloth and his 
knotted girdle ; and ever and anon a group of merry maidens, 
with their high Norman caps and short jupons of parti-colored 
serge, crowding around the jongleur* with his ape and gittern 
— or pressing on to hear the loftier professorf of the gai-science, 
girded with sword and dagger in token of his gentle blood, and 
followed by his boy bearing the harp, which then had power to 
win, not with the low-born and vulgar throng, but with the no- 
ble and the fair, high favor for its wandering master ! 

The courts and thoroughfares of the old town — for it was 
old even then — by slow degrees grew silent and deserted ; 
and, ere the sun was well above the wave, the multitudes which 
thronged them had rolled downward to the port, and stood in 
dense ranks gazing on its calm and sheltered basin. Glorious 
indeed and lovely was the sight when the first yellow rays 

* The juggler of the middle ages, who, like the street-musicians of the present 
time, were moslly Savoyards by birth, generally carried with them the ape or 
marmoset, even to this day their companion, and added to their feats of strength 
and sleight of hand both minstrelsey and music. 

t The gai-seience, so early as the commencement of the century of which we 
write, had its degrees, its colleges, and its professors, who, though itinerants, and 
dependent for their subsistence on their instrument and voice, considered war no 
less their trade than song, esteeming themselves, and moreover admitted by 
others to be, in the fullest sense, gentlemen. 



THE BAY OF BARFLEUR. 75 

streamed over the still waters : they waked the distant summits 
of the hills behind the town into a sudden life ; they kissed the 
crest of every curling ripple that dimpled with its " innumera- 
ble laughter" the azure face of ocean ; but, more than all, they 
seemed to dwell upon two noble barks, which lay, each riding 
at a single anchor, at a short arrow-shot from the white sands 
that girt as with a silver frame the liquid mirror of the harbor. 

Fashioned by the best skill of that early day, and ornamented 
with the most lavish splendor, though widely different from the 
floating castles of modern times, those vessels — the picked 
cruisers of the British navy — were in their structure no less 
picturesque than in their decoration royally magnificent. Long, 
low, and buoyant, they floated lightly as birds upon the surface ; 
their open waists already bristling with the long oars by which, 
after the fashion of the Roman galley, they were propelled in 
serene weather ; their masts clothed with the wings which 
seemed in vain to woo the breeze ; their elevated sterns and 
forecastles blazing with tapestries of gold and silver, reflected 
in long lines of light, scarcely broken by the dancing ripples. 
The larger of the two bore on her foresail, blazoned in gor- 
geous heraldry, the arms of England. The second, somewhat 
smaller, but if anything more elegant in her proportions, and 
fitted with a nicer taste, although less sumptuous, was painted 
white from stem to stern ; her oars, fifty in number, of the same 
spotless hue, were barred upon the blades with silver ; and on 
her foresail of white canvass, overlaid with figured damask, 
were wrought, among a glittering profusion of devices, in char- 
acters of silver, the words " La Blanche Navire." Beyond 
them, in the outer bay, a dozen ships or more were dimly seen 
through the mist-wreaths which the wintry sun was gradually 
scattering — their canvass hanging in festoons from their long 
yard-arms, and their decks crowded, not with mariners alone, 
but with the steel-clad forms of men-at-arms and archers, the 



76 THE FATE OF THE BLANCHE NAVIRE. 

gallant train of the third Norman who had swayed the destinies 
of England. 

The youngest son of the sagacious Conqueror, after the death 
of the " Red king," by a rare union of audacity and cunning, 
Henry, had seized the sceptre of the fair island — the heredi- 
tary right of his romantic, generous, and gallant brother, who 
with the feudatories of his Norman duchy was waging war 
upon the Saracen, neglectful of his own and of his subjects' 
interests alike, beneath the burning sun of Syria. Already 
firmly seated in his usurped dominion ere Robert returned 
homeward, nor yet contented with his ill-gained supremacy, 
he had wrung from the bold crusader, partly by force but more 
by fraud, his continental realms ; and adding cruelty which 
scarcely can be conceived to violence and fraud, deprived him 
of Heaven's choicest blessing, sight, and cast him — of Jate the 
most renowned and glorious knight in Christendom — a miser- 
able, eyeless captive into the towers of Cardiff, his dungeon 
while he lived, and after death his tomb ! 

No retributive justice had discharged its thunders upon the 
guilty one ; no gloom sat on his smooth and lordly brow, no 
thorns had lurked beneath the circle of Henry's blood-bought 
diadem. Fortune had smiled on every effort ; had granted ev- 
ery wish, however wild ; had sanctioned every enterprise, how- 
ever dubious or desperate : he never had known sorrow ; and 
from his restless, energetic soul, remorse and penitence were 
banished by the incessant turmoil of ambition and the perpetual 
excitement of success. And now his dearest wish had been 
accomplished — the most especial aim and object of his life 
perfected with such absolute security, that his insatiate soul 
was satisfied. Absolute lord of England, and undisputed ruler 
of the fair Cotentin, he had of late disarmed the league which 
for a time had threatened his security ; detaching from the cause 
of France the powerful count of Anjou, whose daughter — the 



THE BANQUET. 77 

most lovely lady and the most splendid heiress of the time — 
he had seen wedded to his first-born and his favorite, William. 
The previous day he had beheld the haughty barons tender the 
kiss of homage and swear eternal loyalty to the young heir of 
England, Normandy, and Anjou ; the previous night he had sat 
glad and glorious at the festive board, encompassed by all that 
was fair, and noble, and high-born, in the great realms he gov- 
erned, and among all that proud and graceful circle his eye had 
looked on none so brave and beautiful as that young, guiltless 
pair for whom he had imbrued, not his hands only, but his very 
soul, in blood ! He sat on the high dais, beneath the gilded 
canopy ; and as he quaffed the health of those who had alone 
a kindly tenure of his cold and callous heart, a noble knight 
approached with bended knee, and placing in his hand a mark 
of gold — " Fair sir," he said, " I, a good knight and loyal — 
Thomas Fitz-Stephen — claim of your grace a boon. My father, 
Stephen Fitz-Evrard, served faithfully and well, as long as he 
did live, your father William — served him by sea, and steered 
the ship with his own hand which bore him to that glorious 
crown which he right nobly won at Hastings. I pray you, 
then, fair king, that you do sell to me, for this gold mark, the 
fief I crave of you : that, as Fitz-Evrard served the first King 
William, so may Fitz-Stephen serve the first King Henry. I 
have right nobly fitted — ay, on mine honor, as beseems a 
mighty monarch — here, in the bay of Barfleur, 'the Blanche 
Navire.' Receive it at my hands, great sir, and suffer me to 
steer you homeward ; and so may the blessed Virgin and her 
Son send us the winds which we would have !" 

" Good knight and loyal," answered the prince, as he received 
the proffered coin, " grieved am I, of a truth, and sorrowful, that 
altogether I may not confer on you the fief which of good right 
you claim : for lo ! the bark is chosen — nay, more, apparelled 
for my service — which must to-morrow, by Heaven's mercy, 



78 THE FATE OF THE BLANCHE NAVIRE. 

bear me to that land whither your sire so fortunately guided 
mine. But since it may not be that I may sail myself, as would 
I could do so, in your good bark, to your true care will I intrust 
what I hold dearer than my very soul — my sons, my daughters 
— mine and my country's hope ; and as your father steered the 
first, so shall you steer the third King William, that shall be, 
to the white cliffs of England !" 

" Well said, my liege !" cried Foulke, the count of Anjou, a 
noble-looking baron of tall and stately presence, although far 
past the noon of manhood, the father of the lovely bride ; " to 
better mariner or braver ship than stout Fitz-Stephen and La 
Blanche Navire, was never freight intrusted ! Quaff we a full 
carouse to their blithe voyage ! How sayest thou, daughter 
mine," he added, turning to the blushing girl, who sat attired 
in all the pomp of newly-wedded royalty beside her youthful 
lover — " how sayest thou ? wouldst desire a trustier pilot, or a 
fleeter galley ?" 

" Why," she replied, with a smile half-sweet, half-sorrowful, 
while a bright tear-drop glittered in her eye — " why should I 
seek for fleetness, when that same speed will but the sooner bear 
me from the sight of our fair France, and of thee, too, my father ?" 

" Dost thou, then, rue thy choice ?" whispered the ardent 
voice of William in her ear ; " and wouldst thou tarry here, 
when fate and duty summon me hence for England V 

Her full blue eye met his, radiant with true affection, and her 
slight fingers trembled in the clasp of her young husband with 
a quick thrill of agitation, and her lips parted, but the words 
were heard by none save him to whom they were addressed ; 
for, with the clang of beakers, and the loud swell of joyous mu- 
sic, and the glad merriment of all the courtly revellers, the toast 
of the bride's father passed round the gleaming board : " A blithe 
and prosperous voyage — speed to the Blanche Navire, and joy 
to all who sail in her !" 



THE EMBARKATION. 79 

Thus closed the festive evening, and thus the seal of destiny- 
was set upon a hundred youthful brows, foredoomed, alas ! to 
an untimely grave beneath the ruthless billows. 

The wintry day wore onward ; and, wintry though it was, 
save for a touch of keenness in the frosty air, and for the leaf- 
less aspect of the country, it might have passed for a more 
lightsome season ; the sky was pure and cloudless as were the 
prospects and the hopes of the gay throng who now embarked 
secure and confident beneath its favorable omens. The sun 
shone gayly as in the height of summer, and the blue waves 
lay sleeping in its lustre as quietly as though they ne'er had 
howled despair into the ears of drowning wretches ! There 
was no thought of peril or of fear — how should there be 1 The 
ships were trustworthy ; the seamen skilful, numerous, and 
hardy ; the breezes fair, though faint ; the voyage brief ; the 
time propitious. 

The day wore onward ; and it was high noon before the 
happy king — his every wish accomplished, secure as he con- 
ceived himself, and firm in the fruition of his blood-bought 
majesty — rowed with his glittering train on board the royal 
galley. Loud pealed the cheering clamors of his Norman sub- 
jects, bidding their sovereign hail ; but louder yet they pealed, 
when, with its freight of ladies, the second barge shot forth — 
William and his fair sister, and yet fairer bride, and all the love- 
liest of the dames that graced the broad Cotentin. 

Not yet, however, were the anchors weighed — not yet were 
the sails sheeted home ; for on the deck of the king's vessel, 
beneath an awning of pure cloth-of-gold, a gorgeous board was 
spread. Not in the regal hall of Westminster could more of 
luxury have been brought together than was displayed upon 
that galley's poop. Spread with the softest ermine — meet 
carpet for the gentle feet that trod it — cushioned with seats of 
velvet, steaming with perfumes the most costly, it was a scene 



80 THE FATE OF THE BLANCHE NAVIRE. 

resembling more some fairy palace than the wave-beaten fabric 
that had braved many a gale, and borne the flag of England 
through many a storm in triumph. And there they sat and 
feasted, and the red wine-cup circled freely, and the song went 
round : their hearts were high and happy, and they forgot the 
lapse of hours ; and still the reveller's shout was frequent on 
the breeze, and still the melody of female tones, blent with the 
clang of instrumental music, rang in the ears of those who loi- 
tered on the shore, after the sun had bathed his lower limb in 
the serene and peaceful waters. 

Then, as it were, awaking from their trance of luxury, the 
' banqueters broke off. Skiff after skiff turned shoreward, till 
none remained on board the royal ship except the monarch and 
his train, and that loved son with his bright consort, whom, 
parting from them there, he never was to look upon again ! 
The courses were unfurled, topsails were spread, and pennants 
floated seaward ; and, as the good ship gathered way, the father 
bade adieu — adieu, as he believed it, but for one little night — 
to all he loved on earth ; and their barge, manned by a score 
of powerful and active rowers, wafted the bridal party to the 
Blanche Navire, which, as her precious freight drew nigh, 
luffed gracefully and swiftly up to meet them, as though she 
were a thing of life, conscious and proud of the high honor 
she enjoyed in carrying the united hopes of Normandy and 
England. 

Delay — there was yet more delay ! The night had settled 
down upon the deep before the harbor of Barfleur was fairly 
left behind ; and yet so lovely was the night — with the moon, 
near her full, soaring superbly through the cloudless sky, and 
myriads on myriads of clear stars weaving their mystic dance 
around her — that the young voyagers walked to and fro the 
deck, rejoicing in the happy chance that had secured to them 
so fair, a time for their excursion: and William sat aloof, with 



APPROACHING THE BREAKERS. 81 

his sweet wife beside him, indulging in those bright anticipa- 
tions, those golden dreams of happiness, which indeed make 
futurity a paradise to those who have not learned, by the sad 
schoolings of experience, that human life is but another name 
for human sorrow. 

Fairer — the breeze blew fairer ; and every sail was set and 
drawing, and the light ripples burst with a gurgling sound like 
laughter about the snow-white stem ; and, still to waft them the 
more swiftly to their home, fifty long oars, pulled well and 
strongly by as many nervous arms, glanced in the liquid swell. 
The bubbles on the surface were scarcely seen as they flashed 
by, so rapid was their course ; and a long wake of boiling foam 
glanced in the moonshine, till it was lost to sight in the far dis- 
tance. The port was far behind them ; and the king's ship, 
seen faintly on the glimmering horizon, loomed like a pile of 
vapor far on their starboard bow. And still the music rang 
upon the favorable wind, and still the rowers sang amid their 
toil, and still the captain sent the deep bowl round. The helms- 
man dozed upon the tiller — the watch upon the forecastle had 
long since stretched themselves upon the deck — in the deep 
slumbers of exhaustion and satiety. 

" Give way ! my merry men, give way !" such was the jovial 
captain's cry ; " pull for the pride of Normandy— pull for your 
country's fame, men of the fair Cotentin. What! will ye let 
yon island-lubbers outstrip ye in the race ? More way ! more 
way !" 

And with unrivalled speed the Blanche Navire sped on. A 
long black line stretches before her bow, dotting the silvery 
surface with ragged and fantastic shades ; but not one eye has 
marked it ! On she goes, swifter yet and swifter, and still the 
fatal shout is ringing from her decks : " Give way, men of Co- 
tentin ! give more way !" Now they are close upon it, and 
now the dashing of the surf about the broken ledges — for that 

4* 



82 THE FATE OP THE BLANCHE NAVIRE. 

black line is the dread Raz de Gatteville, the most tremendous 
reef of all that bar the iron coast of Normandy ! The hoarse 
and hollow roar must reach the ears even of those who sleep. 
But no ! the clangor of the exulting trumpets, and the deep 
booming of the Norman nakir, and that ill-omened shout, " Give 
way — yet more — more way!" has drowned even the all-per- 
vading roar of the wild breakers. On, on she goes, fleet as the 
gazehound darting upon its antlered prey ; and now her bows 
are bathed by the upflashing spray; and now — hark to that 
hollow shock, that long and grinding crash ! — hark to that wild 
and agonizing yell sent upward by two hundred youthful voices, 
up to the glorious stars that smiled as if in mockery of their 
ruin. There rang the voice of the strong, fearless men ; the 
knight who had spurred oft his destrier amid the shivering of 
lances and the rending clash of blades, without a thought unless 
of high excitement and fierce joy ; the mariner who, undis- 
mayed, had reefed his sail, and steered his bark aright, amid 
the wildest storm that ever lashed the sea to fury — now utterly 
unnerved and paralyzed by the appalling change from mirth 
and revelry to imminent and instant death. 

So furious was the rate at which the galley was propelled, 
that, when she struck upon the sharp and jagged rocks, her 
prow was utterly stove inward, and the strong tide rushed in, 
foaming and roaring like a mill-stream ! Ten seconds' space 
she hung upon the perilous ledge, while the waves made a 
clear breach over her, sweeping not only every living being, 
but every fixture — spars, bulwarks, shrouds, and the tall masts 
themselves — from her devoted decks. At the first shock, with 
the instinctive readiness that characterizes, in whatever peril, 
the true mariner, Fitz-Stephen, rallying to his aid a dozen of 
the bravest of his men, had cleared away and launched a boat ; 
and, even as the fated bark went down, bodily sucked into the 
whirling surf, had seized the prince and dragged him with a 



SHIPWRECK LOSS OF ALL ON BOARD. 83 

stalwart arm into the little skiff, which had put off at once, to 
shun the drowning hundreds who must have crowded in and 
sunk her on the instant. 

" Pull back! — God's death! — pull back!" cried the impetu- 
ous youth, as he looked round and saw that he alone of all his 
race was there ; " pull back, ye dastard slaves, or by the Lord 
and Maker of us all, though ye escape the waves, ye 'scape 
not my revenge !" — and, as he spoke, he whirled his weapon 
from the scabbard and pressed the point so closely to Fitz- 
Stephen's throat, that its keen temper razed the skin ; and, ter- 
rified by his fierce menaces, and yet more by the resolute ex- 
pression that glanced forth from his whole countenance, they 
turned her head once more toward the reef, and shot into the 
vortex, agitated yet and boiling, wherein the hapless galley had 
been swallowed. A female head, with long, fair hair, rose 
close beside the shallop's stern, above the turbulent foam. Wil- 
liam bent forward : he had already clutched those golden tres- 
ses — a moment, and she would have been enfolded in his arms 
— another head rose suddenly! another — and another — and 
another ! Twenty strong hands grappled the gunwale of the 
skiff with the tenacity of desperation. There was a struggle, 
a loud shout, a heavy plunge, and the last remnant of the Blanche 
Navire went down, actually dragged from beneath the few sur- 
vivors by the despairing hands of those whom she could not 
have saved or succored had she been of ten times her burden. 

All, all went down ! There was a long and awful pause, 
and then a slight splash broke the silence, a faint and gurgling 
sigh, and a strong swimmer rose and shook the brine from his 
dark locks ; and lo, he was alone upon the deep ! Something 
he saw at a brief distance, distinct and dark, floating upon the 
surface, and with a vigorous stroke he neared it — a fragment 
of a broken spar. Hope quickened at his heart, and love of life, 
almost forgotten in the immediate agony and terror, returned 



84 ' THE FATE OF THE BLANCHE NAVIRE. 

in all its natural strength. He seized a rope, and by its aid 
reared himself out of the abyss ; and now he sat, securely as he 
deemed it, upon a floating fragment on which, one little hour 
before, he would not have embarked for all the wealth of India. 
Scarcely had he reached his temporary place of safety, before 
another of the sufferers swam feebly up and joined him, and 
then a third, the last of the survivors. The first who reached 
the spar — it was no other than Fitz-Stephen — had perused 
with an anxiety the most sickening and painful the faces of the 
new-comers : he knew them, but they were not the features he 
would have given his own life to see in safety — Berault, a 
butcher of Rouen, and Godfrey, a renowned and gallant youth, 
the son of Gilbert, count de L'Aigle. " The prince — where is 
the prince ?" Fitz-Stephen cried to each, as he arrived ; "hast 
thou not seen the prince ?" And each, in turn, replied : " He 
never rose again — he, nor his brothers, nor his sister, nor his 
bride, nor one of all their company !" — " Wo be to me !" Fitz- 
Stephen cried, and letting go his hold, deliberately sank into 
the whirling waters ; and, though a strong man and an active 
swimmer, chose to die with the victims whom his rashness had 
destroyed, rather than meet the indignation of their bereaved 
father, and bear the agonies of his own lifelong remorse. 

Three days elapsed before the tidings reached King Henry, 
who in the fearful misery of hope deferred had lingered on the 
beach, trusting to hear that, from some unknown cause, the gal- 
ley of his son might have put back to Barfleur. On the third 
day, Berault, the sole survivor of that night of misery, was 
brought in by a fishing-boat which had preserved him ; and, 
when he had concluded his narration, Robert of Normandy had 
been revenged, although his wrongs had been a hundred-fold 
more flagrant than they were. Henry, though he lived years, 

NEVER SMILED AGAIN ! 



THE SAXON'S BRIDAL. 



There are times in England when the merry month of May 
is not, as it would now appear, merely a poet's fiction ; when 
the air is indeed mild and balmy, and the more conspicuously 
so, that it succeeds the furious gusts and driving hailstorms of 
the boisterous March, the fickle sunshine and capricious rains 
of April. One of these singular epochs in the history of weather 
it was in which events occurred, which remained unforgotten 
for many a day, in the green wilds of Charnwood forest. 

It was upon a soft, sweet morning, toward the latter end of 
the month, and surely nothing more delicious could have been 
conceived by the fancy of the poet. The low west wind was 
fanning itself among the tender leaves of the new-budded trees, 
and stealing over the deep meadows, all redolent with dewy 
wild flowers, waving them with a gentle motion, and borrowing 
a thousand perfumes from their bosoms. The hedgerows were 
as white with the dense blossoms of the hawthorn as though 
they had been powdered over by an untimely snowstorm ; while 
everywhere along the wooded banks the saffron primrose and 
its sweet sister of the spring, the violet, were sunning their 
unnumbered blossoms in the calm warmth of the vernal sun- 
shine. The heavens, of a pure, transparent blue, were laugh- 
ing with a genial lustre, not flooded by the dazzling glare of 



86 the saxon's bridal. 

midsummer, but pouring over all beneath their influence a lovely, 
gentle light, in perfect keeping with the style of the young 
scenery ; and all the air was literally vocal with the notes of 
innumerable birds, from the proud lark, " rejoicing at heaven's 
gate," to the thrush and blackbird, trilling their full, rich chants 
from every dingle, and the poor linnet, piping on the spray. 
Nothing — no, nothing — can be imagined that so delights the 
fancy with sweet visions, that so enthrals the senses, shedding 
its influences even upon the secret heart, as a soft, old-fash- 
ioned May morning. Apart from the mere beauties of the 
scenery — from the mere enjoyment of the bright skies, the 
dewy perfumes that float on every breeze, the mild, unscorch- 
ing warmth — apart from all these, there is something of a 
deeper and a higher nature in the thoughts called forth by the 
spirit of the time ; a looking forward of the soul to fairer things 
to come ; an excitement of a quiet hope within, not very defi- 
nite, perhaps, nor easily explained, but one which almost every 
man has felt, and contrasted with the languid and pallid satiety 
produced by the full heat of summer, and yet more with the 
sober and reflective sadness that steals upon the mind as we 
survey the russet hues and the sere leaves of autumn. It is as 
if the newness, the fresh youth of the season, gave birth to a 
corresponding youth of the soul. Such are the sentiments 
which many men feel now-a-days, besides the painter, and the 
poet, and the soul-rapt enthusiast of nature : but those were 
iron days of which we write, and men spared little time in 
thought from action or from strife, nor often paused to note 
their own sensations, much less to ponder on their origin or to 
investigate their causes. 

The morning was such as we have described — the scene a 
spot of singular beauty within the precincts of the then-royal 
forest of Charnwood, in Leicestershire. A deep but narrow 
stream wound in a hundred graceful turns through the rich 



CHARNWOOD FOREST. 87 

meadow-land that formed the bottom of a small, sloping vale, 
which had been partially reclaimed, even at that day, from the 
waste ; though many a willow-bush fringing its margin, and 
many a waving ash, fluttering its delicate tresses in the air, 
betrayed the woodland origin of the soft meadow. A narrow 
road swept down the hill, with a course little less serpentine 
than that of the river below, and crossed it by a small, one- 
arched stone bridge, overshadowed by a gigantic oak-tree, and 
scaled the opposite acclivity in two or three sharp, sandy zig- 
zags. Both the hillsides were clothed with forest, but still the 
nature of the soil or some accidental causes had rendered the 
wood as different as possible ; for, on the farther side of the 
stream, the ground was everywhere visibly covered by a short, 
mossy turf, softer and more elastic to the foot than the most 
exquisite carpet that ever issued from the looms of Persia, and 
overshadowed by huge and scattered oaks, growing so far apart 
that the eye could range far between their shadowy vistas ; 
while on the nearer slope — the foreground, as it might be 
called, of the picture — all was a dense and confused mass of 
tangled shrubbery and verdure. Thickets of old, gnarled thorn- 
bushes, completely overrun and matted with woodbines ; cop- 
pices of young ash, with hazel interspersed, and eglantine and 
dog-roses thickly set between ; clumps of the prickly gorse 
and plumelike broom, all starry with their golden flowerets, and 
fern so wildly luxuriant, that in many places it would have 
concealed the head of the tallest man, covered the ground for 
many a mile through which the narrow road meandered. 

There was one object more in view — one which spoke of 
man even in that solitude, and man in his better aspect. It was 
the slated roof and belfry, all overgrown with moss and stone- 
crop, of a small wayside chapel, in the old Saxon architecture, 
peering out from the shadows of the tall oaks which overhung 
it in the far distance. It was, as we have said, very small, in 



88 THE SAXON S BRIDAL. 

the old Saxon architecture, consisting, in fact, merely of a 
vaulted roof supported upon four squat, massy columns, whence 
sprung the four groined ribs which met in the centre of the 
arch. Three sides alone of this primitive place of worship, 
which would have contained with difficulty forty persons, were 
walled in, the front presenting one wide, open arch, richly and 
quaintly sculptured with the indented wolf's teeth of the first 
Saxon style. Small as it was, however, the little chapel had 
its high altar, with the crucifix and candle, its reading-desk of 
old black oak, its font, and pix, and chalices, and all the ad- 
juncts of the Roman ritual. A little way to the left might be 
discovered the low, thatched eaves of a rustic cottage, framed 
of the unbarked stems of forest-trees — the abode, probably, of 
the officiating priest ; and close beside the walls of the little 
church a consecrated well, protected from the sun by a stone 
vault, of architecture corresponding to the chapel. 

Upon the nearer slope, not far from the roadside, but entirely 
concealed from passers by the nature of the ground and the 
dense thickets, there were collected, at an early hour of the 
morning, five men, with as many horses, who seemed to be 
awaiting, in a sort of ambush, some persons whom they would 
attack at unawares. The leader of the party, as he might be 
considered, as much from his appearance as from the deference 
shown to him by the others, was a tall, active, powerful man, 
of thirty-eight or forty years, with a bold and expressive coun- 
tenance — expressive, however, of no good quality, unless it 
were the fiery, reckless daring which blazed from his broad, 
dark eye, and that was almost, obscured by the cloud of insuf- 
ferable pride which lowered upon his frowning brow, and by 
the deep, scar-like lines of lust, and cruelty, and scorn, which 
ploughed his weather-beaten features. His dress was a com- 
plete suit of linked chain-mail — hauberk, and sleeves, and hose 
— with shoes of plaited steel, and gauntlets wrought in scale, 



THE AMBUSH. 89 

covering his person from his neck downward in impenetrable 
armor. He had large gilded spurs buckled upon his heels, and 
a long, two edged dagger, with a rich hilt and scabbard, in his 
belt ; but neither sword, nor lance, nor any other weapon of 
offence, except a huge steel mace, heavy enough to fell an ox 
at a single blow, which he grasped in his right hand ; while 
from his left hung the bridle of a tall, coal-black Norman char- 
ger, which was cropping the grass quietly beside him. His 
head was covered by a conical steel cap, with neither crest, nor 
plume, nor visor, and mail-hood falling down from it to protect 
the neck and shoulders of the wearer. 

The other four were men-at-arms, clad all in suits of armor, 
but less completely than their lord : thus they had steel shirts 
only, with stout buff breeches and heavy boots to guard their 
lower limbs, and iron skullcaps only, without the hood, upon 
their heads, and leather gauntlets upon their hands ; but, as if 
to make up for this deficiency, they were positively loaded with 
offensive weapons. They had the long, two-handed sword of 
the period belted across their persons, three or four knives and 
daggers of various size and strength at their girdles, great 
battle-axes in their hands, and maces hanging at their saddle- 
bows. They had been tarrying there already several hours, 
their leader raising his eyes occasionally to mark the progress 
of the sun as he climbed up the azure vault, and muttering a 
brief and bitter curse as hour passed after hour, and those came 
not whom he expected. 

" Danian," he said at length, turning to the principal of his 
followers, who stood nearer to his person, and a little way 
apart from the others — " Danian, art sure this was the place 
and day ? How the dog Saxons tarry ! Can they have learned 
our purpose ?" 

" Surely not, surely not, fair sir," returned the squire, " see- 
ing that I have mentioned it to no one, not even to Raoul, or 



JO the saxox's bridal. 

Americ, or Guy, who know no more than their own battle-axes 
vhe object of their ambush. And it was pitch-dark when we 
left the castle, and not a soul has seen us here ; so it is quite 
impossible they should suspect — and hark ! there goes the bell ; 
and see, sir, see — there they come, trooping through the oak- 
trees down the hill !" 

And indeed, as he spoke, the single bell of the small chapel 
began to chime with the merry notes that proclaim a bridal, 
and a gay train of harmless, happy villagers might be seen, as 
they flocked along, following the footsteps of the gray-headed 
Saxon monk, who, in his frock and cowl, with corded waist 
and sandalled feet, led the procession. Six young girls fol- 
lowed close behind him, dressed in blue skirts and russet jer- 
kins, but crowned with garlands of white May-flowers, and 
May-wreaths wound like scarfs across their swelling bosoms, 
and hawthorn-branches in their hands, singing the bridal carol 
in the old Saxon tongue, in honor of the pride of the village, 
the young and lovely Marian. She was indeed the very per- 
sonification of all the poet's dreams of youthful beauty — tall 
and slender in her figure, yet exquisitely, voluptuously rounded 
in every perfect outline, with a waist of a span's circumference, 
wide, sloping shoulders, and a bust that, for its matchless swell, 
as it struggled and throbbed with a thousand soft emotions, threat- 
ening to burst from the confinement of her tight-fitting jacket, 
would have put to shame the bosom of the Medicean Venus. 
Her complexion, wherever the sun had not too warmly kissed 
her beauties, was pure as the driven snow ; while her large, 
bright-blue eyes, red, laughing lip, and the luxuriant flood of 
sunny, golden hair, which streamed down in wild, artless ring- 
lets to her waist, made her a creature for a prince's, or more, a 
poet's adoration. 

But neither prince nor poet was the god of that fair girl's 
idolatry, but one of her own class, a Saxon youth, a peasant — 



THE BRIDAL PARTY. 91 

nay, a serf — from his very cradle upward the born thrall of 
Hugh de Mortemar, lord of the castle and the hamlet at its foot, 
named, from its situation in the depths of Charnwood, Ashby in 
the Forest. But there was now no graven collar about the 
sturdy neck of the young Saxon, telling of a suffering servi- 
tude ; no dark shade of gloom in his full, glancing eye ; no sul- 
len doggedness upon his lip : for he was that day, that glad 
day, a freeman — a slave no longer — but free, free, by the gift 
of his noble master ; free as the wild bird that sung so loudly 
in the forest ; free as the liberal air that bore the carol to his 
ears. His frock of forest-green and buskins of the untanned 
deer-hide set off his muscular, symmetrical proportions, and 
his close-curled, short auburn hair showed a well-turned and 
shapely head. Behind this gay and happy pair came several 
maids and young men, two-and-two ; and after these, an old, 
gray -headed man, the father of the bride — and leaning on his 
arm an aged matron, the widowed mother of the enfranchised 
bridegroom. 

Merrily rang the gay, glad bells, and blithely swelled up the 
bridal chorus as they collected on the little green before the 
ancient arch, and slowly filed into the precincts of the forest 
shrine ; but very speedily their merriment was changed into 
dismay and terror and despair, for scarcely had they passed 
into the sacred building, before the knight, with his dark fol- 
lowers, leaped into their saddles, and thundering down the hill 
at a tremendous gallop, surrounded the chapel before the in- 
mates had even time to think of any danger. It was a strange, 
wild contrast, the venerable priest within pronouncing even 
then the nuptial blessing, and proclaiming over the bright 
young pair the union made by God, which thenceforth no man 
should dissever — the tearful happiness of the blushing bride, 
the serious gladness of the stalwart husband, the kneeling peas- 
antry, the wreaths of innocent flowers ; and at the gate, the 



92 the saxon's bridal. 

stern, dark men-at-arms, with their scarred savage features, 
and their gold-gleaming harness and raised weapons. A loud 
shriek burst from the lips of the sweet girl, as, lifting her eyes 
to the sudden clang and clatter that harbingered those dread 
intruders, she saw and recognised upon the instant the fiercest 
of the Norman tyrants — dreaded by all his neighbors far and 
near, but most by the most virtuous and young and lovely — 
the bold, bad baron of Maltravers. He bounded to the earth 
as he reached the door, and three of his followers leaped from 
their horses likewise, one sitting motionless in his war-saddle, 
and holding the four chargers. " Hold, priest !" he shouted, 
as he entered, " forbear this mummery ; and thou, dog Saxon, 
think not that charms like these are destined to be clasped in 
rapture by any arms of thy slow, slavish race !" and with these 
words he strode up to the altar, seemingly fearless of the least 
resistance, while his men kept the door with brandished weap- 
ons. Mute terror seized on all, paralyzed utterly by the dread 
interruption — on all but the bold priest and the stout bride- 
groom. 

" Nay, rather forbear thou, Alberic de Maltravers ! These 
two are one for ever — wo be to those who part them !" 

" Tush, priest — tush, fool !" sneered the fierce baron, as he 
seized him by the arm, and swinging him back rudely, advanced 
upon the terrified and weeping girl, who was now clinging to 
the very rails of the high altar, trusting, poor wretch, that some 
respect for that sanctity of place which in old times had awed 
even heathens, might now prevail with one whom no respect 
for anything divine or human had ever yet deterred from doing 
his unholy will. 

" Ha ! dog !" cried he, in fiercer tones, that filled the chapel 
as it were a trumpet, seeing the Saxon bridegroom lift up a 
heavy quarter-staff which lay beside him, and step in quietly 
but very resolutely in defence of his lovely wife — " Ha ! dog 



THE FIERY ENCOUNTER. 93 

and slave, dare you resist a Norman and a noble 1 — back, 
serf, or die the death !" and he raised his huge mace to strike 
him. 

" No serf, sir, nor slave either," answered the Saxon, 
firmly, " but a freeman, by my good master's gift, and a land- 
holder." 

" Well, master freeman and landholder," replied the other, 
with a bitter sneer, " if such names please you better, stand 
back — for Marian lies on no bed but mine this night — stand 
back, before worse come of it !" 

"I will die rather," was the answer. — "Then die! fool! 
die !" shouted the furious Norman, and with the words he struck 
full at the bare brow of the dauntless Saxon with his tremen- 
dous mace — it fell, and with dint that would have crushed the 
strongest helmet into a thousand splinters — it fell, but by a 
dexterous slight the yeoman swung his quarter-staff across the 
blow, and parried its direction, although the tough ash-pole 
burst into fifty shivers — it fell upon the carved rails of the 
altar and smashed them into atoms ; but while the knight, who 
had been somewhat staggered by the impetus of his own mis- 
directed blow, was striving to recover himself, the young man 
sprang upon him, and grappling him by the throat, gained a 
short-lived advantage. Short-lived it was indeed, and perilous 
to him that gained — for although there were men enough in 
the chapel, all armed with quarter staves, and one or two with 
the genuine brown bill, to have overpowered the four Normans, 
despite their war array — yet so completely were they over- 
come by consternation, that not one moved a step to aid him ; 
the priest, who had alone showed any spark of courage, 
being impeded by the shrieking women, who, clinging to the 
hem of his vestments, implored him for the love of God to 
save them. 

In an instant that fierce grapple was at an end, for in the 



94 the saxon's bridal. 

twinkling of an eye, two of the men-at-arms had rushed upon 
him and dragged him off their lord. 

"Now by the splendor of God's brow," shouted the enraged 
knight, " thou art a sweet dog thus to brave thy masters. Nay, 
harm him not. Raoul" — he went on — " harm not the poor dog,'* 
— as his follower had raised his battle-axe to brain him — 
" harm him not, else we should raise the ire of that fool, Mor- 
tem ar ! Drag him out — tie him to the nearest tree, and this 
good priest beside him — before his eyes we will console this 
fair one." And with these words he seized the trembling 
girl, forcing her from the altar, and encircling her slender 
waist in the foul clasp of his licentious arms. "And ye," 
he went on, lashing himself into fury as he continued, — 
" and ye churl Saxons, hence! — hence dogs and harlots to 
your kennels !" 

No farther words were needed, for his orders were obeyed 
by his own men with the speed of light, and the Saxons over- 
joyed to escape on any terms, rushed in a confused mass out 
of the desecrated shrine, and fled in all directions, fearful of 
farther outrage. Meanwhile, despite the struggles of the 
youth, and the excommunicating anathemas which the priest 
showered upon their heads, the men-at-arms bound them 
securely to the oak-trees, and then mounting their horses, sat 
laughing at their impotent resistance, while with a refinement 
of brutality worthy of actual fiends, Alberic de Maltravers bore 
the sweet wife clasped to his iron breast, up to the very face 
of her outraged, helpless husband, and tearing open all her 
jerkin, displayed to the broad light the whole of her white, 
panting bosom, and poured from his foul, fiery lips a flood of 
lustful kisses on her mouth, neck, and bosom, under the very 
eyes of his tortured victim. To what new outrage he might 
have next proceeded, must remain ever doubtful, for at this 
very instant the long and mellow blast of a clearly-winded bu- 



SIR HUGH DE MORTEMAR. 95 

gle came swelling through the forest succeeded by the bay of 
several bloodhounds, and the loud, ringing gallop of many fast 
approaching. 

" Ha !" shouted he, " ten thousand curses on him ! here 
comes De Mortemar. Quick — quick — away! Here, Raoul, 
take the girl, buckle her tight to your back with the sword-belt, 
and give me your twohanded blade ; I lost my mace in the 
chapel! — That's right ! quick! man — that's right — now, then, 
be off — ride for your life — straight to the castle; we will 
stop all pursuit. Fare thee well, sweet one, for a while — we 
will conclude hereafter what we have now commenced so 
fairly !" 

And as he spoke, he also mounted his strong charger, and 
while the man, Raoul, dashed his spurs rowel-deep into his 
horse's flanks, and went off at a thundering gallop, the other 
four followed him at a slower pace, leaving the Saxons in re- 
doubled anguish — redoubled by the near hope of rescue. 

But for once villany was not permitted to escape due retri- 
bution, for ere the men-at-arms, who led the flight, had crossed 
the little bridge, a gallant train came up at a light canter from 
the wood, twenty or thirty archers, all with their long bows 
bent, and their arrows notched and ready, with twice as many 
foresters on foot, with hounds of every kind, in slips and leashes, 
and at their head a man of as noble presence as ever graced a 
court or reined a charger. He was clad in a plain hunting- 
frock of forest-green, with a black velvet bonnet and a heron's 
plume, and wore no other weapon but a light hunting-sword — 
but close behind him rode two pages, bearing his knightly 
lance with its long pennon, his blazoned shield, and his two- 
handed broadsword. It was that brave and noble Norman, Sir 
Hugh de Mortemar. His quick eye in an instant took in the 
whole of the confused scene before him, and understood it on 
the instant. 



96 the saxon's bridal. 

" Alberic de Maltravers !" he cried, in a voice clear and loud 
as the call of a silver trumpet, " before God he shall rue it," 
and with the words he snatched his lance from the page, and 
dashing spurs into his splendid Spanish charger, thundered his 
orders out with the rapid rush of a winter's torrent. " Bend 
your bows, archers, — draw home your arrows to the head! 
stand, thou foul ravisher, dishonest Norman, false gentleman, 
and recreant knight ! Stand on the instant, or we shoot ! Cut 
loose the yeoman from the tree, ye varlets, and the good priest. 
Randal, cast loose the bloodhounds down to the bridge across 
yon knoll, and lay them on the track of that flying scoundrel. 
Ha! they will meet us." 

And so in truth they did ; for seeing that he could not escape 
the deadly archery, Alberic de Maltravers wheeled short on 
his pursuers, and shouted his war-cry — " Saint Paul for Albe- 
ric ! — false knight and liar in your throat. Saint Paul ! Saint 
Paul ! charge home," — and with the words the steel-clad men- 
at-arms drove on, expecting by the weight of their harness to 
ride down and scatter the light archery like chaff. Unarmed 
although he was, De Mortemar paused not — not for a moment! 
— but galloped in his green doublet as gallantly upon his foe 
as though he had been sheathed in steel. He had but one ad- 
vantage — but one hope ! — to bear his iron-clad opponent down 
at the lance point, without closing — on! they came, on! — 
Maltravers swinging his twohanded sword aloft, and trusting in 
his mail to turn the lance's point — De Mortemar with his long 
spear in rest — " Saint Paul ! Saint Paul !" — they met ! the dust 
surged up in a dense cloud ! the very earth appeared to shake 
beneath their feet! — but not a moment was the conflict doubt- 
ful. Deep ! deep ! throughed his linked mail, and through his 
leathern jerkin, and through his writhing flesh, the grinded 
spear-head shove into his bosom, and came out at his back, the 
ash-staff breaking in the wound. Down he went, horse and 



THE RESCUE AND RETRIBUTION. 97 

man ! — and down, at one close volley of the gray goose shafts, 
down went his three companions ! — one shot clear through the 
brain by an unerring shaft — the others stunned and bruised, 
their horses both slain under them. " Secure them," shouted 
Hugh, " bind them both hand and foot, and follow," — and he 
paused not to look upon his slain assailant, but galloped down 
the hill, followed by half his train, the bloodhounds giving 
tongue fiercely, and already gaining on the fugitive. It was a 
fearful race, but quickly over! — for though the man-at-arms 
spurred desperately on, his heavy Norman horse, oppressed, 
moreover, by his double load, had not a chance in competing 
with the proud Andalusian of De Mortemar. Desperately he 
spurred on — but now the savage hounds were up with him — 
they rushed full at the horse's throat and bore him to the earth 
— another moment, Raoul was a bound captive, and Marian, 
rescued by her liege lord, and wrapped in his own mantle, was 
clasped in the fond arms of her husband ! 

" How now, good priest," exclaimed Sir Hugh, " are these 
two now fast wedded ?" 

" As fast, fair sire, as the holy rites may wed them." 

" Then ring me, thou knave, Ringan, a death-peal ! Thou, 
Gilbert, and thou, Launcelot, make me three halters, quick — 
nay ! four — the dead knight shall swing, as his villany well 
merits, beside the living knaves! — Sing me a death-chant, 
priest, for these are judged to death, unhouselled and un- 
shriven !" 

Not a word did the ruffians answer, they knew that prayer 
was useless, and with dark frowning brows, and dauntless bear- 
ing, they met their fate, impenitent and fearless. For Marian 
begged their lives in vain. De Mortemar was pitiless in his 
just wrath ! And the spurs were hacked from the heels of the 
dead knight, and the base halter twisted round his cold neck, 
and his dishonored corpse hungup upon the very tree to which 

5 



98 THE saxon's bridal. 

he had bade bind the Saxon bridegroom. And the death-peals 
were sung, and the death-hymn was chanted ; and ere the 
sounds of either had died away in the forest echoes, the three 
marauders writhed out their villain souls in the mild air, and 
swung three grim and ghastly monuments of a foul crime and 
fearful retribution — and this dread rite consummated the Sax- 
on's bridal ! 



LEGENDS 



OF 



THE CRUSADERS. 



THE SYRIAN LADY; 

A SKETCH OF THE CRUSADES. 



" Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ; 
A spark of that immortal fire 
"With angels shared, by Allah given, 
To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above, 
But heaven itself descends in love." — The Giaour. 

There is something in the first appproach of spring — in 
the budding of the young leaves, the freshness of the genial 
atmosphere, the songs of the small birds, the increasing warmth 
and lustre of the sun — as contrasted with the gloomy winter 
which has just departed, that can not fail to awaken ideas of 
a gay and lively character in all hearts accessible to the influ- 
ences of gratitude and love. In compliance, as it were, with 
this feeling, a custom has more or less generally prevailed 
among all nations, and in all ages, of celebrating the arrival of 
this season by merriment, and song, and rural triumph. Like 
many others, admirable practices of the olden time, the setting 
apart to joy and innocent festivity of the first of May is now 
gradually falling into neglect; but at the period of which we 
are about to treat, not Christmas itself could be observed with 
more reverential eare than its inviting rival. On May-day, the 
evergreens which had decked the cottage and the church, the 



102 THE SYRIAN LADY. 

castle and the cloister, gave way to garlands of such flo"\vers as 
the mellowing influences of the season had already called into 
their existence of beauty and perfume ; troops of morris-dancers 
paraded the public way with their fantastic dresses, glittering 
blades, and intricate evolutions ; feasting and wassail, without 
which even pleasure itself was then deemed incomplete, pre- 
vailed on every side ; in the crowded city, or in the secluded 
valley ; in the hut of the serf, or in the turreted keep of his 
warlike lord ; in the gloom of the convent, or in the glitter of 
the court, the same feelings were excited, the same animation 
glowed in every countenance, the same triumphant demonstra- 
tions of joy hailed the glad harbinger of sunshine and of sum- 
mer. 

In England, above all other lands — the merry England of 
antiquity — was this pleasing festival peculiarly dear to all 
classes of society ; at all times a period eagerly anticipated, 
and rapturously enjoyed, never perhaps was its arrival celebra- 
ted by all men with wilder revelry, with more enthusiastic hap- 
piness, than on the year which had accomplished the deliver- 
ance of their lion-hearted monarch from the chains of perfid- 
ious Austria. It seemed to the whole nation as though, not 
only the actual winter of the year, with his dark accompani- 
ments of snow and storm, but the yet more oppressive winter 
of anarchy and misrule, of usurpation and tyranny, were about 
to pass away from the people, which had so long groaned under 
the griping sway of the bad John, or been torn by the savage 
strife of his mercenary barons ; Avhile their legitimate and hon- 
ored sovereign was dragging his dreary hours along in the dun- 
geon, from which he had but now escaped, through the devoted 
fidelity and unrivalled art of the minstrel Blondel. 

Now, however, the king was on the throne of his fathers, 
girt with a circle of three gallant spirits, who had shed their 
blood like water on the thirsty deserts of Syria ; earning not 



THE NATIONAL FESTIVAL. 103 

only earthly honor and renown, but, as their imperfect faith 
had taught them to believe, the far more lofty guerdon of eter- 
nal life. Now their national festival had returned — they were 
called upon by the thousand voices of nature to give the rein to 
Pleasure, and why should they turn a deaf ear to her inspiring 
call? 

The streets of London — widely different indeed from the 
vast wilderness of walls, which has risen like a phoenix from 
the ashes of its predecessor, but even at that early age a vast 
and flourishing town — were thronged, from the earliest dawn, 
by a constant succession of smiling faces : old and young, men 
and maidens, grave citizens and stern soldiers, all yielding to 
the excitement of the moment, all hurrying from the intricate 
lanes of the city to greet their king, who had announced his 
intention of holding a court at Westminster, and proceeding 
thence, at high noon, to feast with the city dignitaries in Guild- 
hall. The open stalls, which then occupied the place of shops, 
were adorned by a display of their richest wares, decorated 
with wreaths of a thousand bright colors ; — steel harness from 
the forges of Milan ; rich velvets from the looms of Genoa ; 
drinking-cups and ewers of embossed gold, glittered in every 
booth. The projecting galleries, which thrust forward their irreg- 
ular gables far across the narrow streets, were hung with tapes- 
tries of price ; while garlands of flowers, stretched from side to 
side, and the profusion of hawthorn boughs, with their light 
green leaves and snowy blossoms, lent a sylvan appearance to 
the crowded haunts of the metropolis. From space to space 
the streets were guarded by the city-watch in their white cas- 
socks and glittering head-pieces ; while ever and anon the 
train of some great lord came winding its way, with led horses 
in costly caparison, squires and pages in the most gorgeous fash- 
ion of the day, the banner and the knightly armor of the baron 
borne before him, from his lodgings in the Minories, or the more 



104 THE SYRIAN LADY. 

notorious Chepe. The air was literally alive with music and 
light, laughter ; even the shaven and cowled monk, as he 
threaded his way through the motley concourse — suffered the 
gravity of his brow to relax into a smile when he looked upon 
the undisguised delight of some fair girl, escorted by her trusty 
bachelor ; now stopping to gaze on the foreign curiosities dis- 
played in decorated stalls ; now starting in affected terror from 
the tramp and snort of the proud war-horse, or mustering a 
frown of indignation at the unlicensed salutation of its courtly 
rider ; now laughing with unsuppressed glee at the strange 
antics of the mummers and morricers, who, in every disguise 
that fancy could suggest, danced and tumbled through the 
crowded ways — heedless of the disturbance they excited, or 
the danger they incurred from the hoofs of chargers which 
were prancing along in constant succession, to display the 
equestrian graces and firm seat of some young aspirant for the 
honors of chivalry. 

The whole scene was in the highest degree picturesque, and 
such as no other age of the world could afford. The happiness 
which, although fleeting and fictitious, threw its bright illumi- 
nation over the whole multitude, oblivious of the cares, the 
labors, and the sorrows of to-morrow, afforded a subject for the 
harp of the poet, no less worthy his inspired meditations than 
the gorgeous coloring and the rich costume of the middle ages 
might lend to the pencil of a Leslie or a Newton. 

In a chamber overlooking with its Gothic casements this 
scene of contagious mirth — alone, unmoved by the gay hum 
which told of happiness in every passing breeze — borne down, 
as it would appear, by the weight of some secret calamity — 
sat Sir Gilbert a-Becket, of glorious form and unblemished 
fame. The bravest of the brave on the battle-plain, unequalled 
for wisdom in the hall of council, he had been among the first 
of those bold hearts who had buckled on their mighty armor to 



SIR GILBERT A-BECKET. 105 

fight the good fight of Christianity — to rear the cross above the 
crescent — and to redeem the Savior's sepulchre from the con- 
taminating sway of the unbeliever. 

There was not one among the gallant thousands who had 
followed their lion-hearted leader from the green vales of Eng- 
land to the sultry sands of Palestine, whose high qualities had 
been more frequently tried, or whose undaunted valor was more 
generally acknowledged, than the knight a-Becket ; there was 
not one to whose lance the chivalrous Richard looked more 
confidently for support, nor one to whose counsel he more wil- 
lingly inclined his ear. In the last desperate effort before the 
walls of Ascalon — when, with thirty knights alone, the Eng- 
lish monarch had defied the concentrated powers, and vainly 
sought an opponent in the ranks of sixty thousand mussulmans 
— his crest had shone the foremost in those fierce encounters 
which have rendered the name of the Melee Ric a terror to 
the tribes of the desert that has endured even to the present 
day. It was at the close of this bloody encounter, that, con- 
quered by his own previous exertions rather than by the prowess 
of his foemen — his armor hacked and rent, his war-steed slain 
beneath him — he had been overwhelmed by numbers while 
wielding his tremendous blade beside the bridle-rein of his 
king, and borne away by the Saracens into hopeless captivity. 

Days and months had rolled onward, and the limbs of the 
champion were wasted and his constitution sapped by the vile 
repose of the dungeon ; yet never for an instant had his proud 
demeanor altered, or his high spirit quailed beneath the pros- 
pect of an endless slavery. All means had been resorted to 
by his turbaned captors to induce him to adopt the creed of 
Mohammed. Threat of torments such as was scarcely endured 
even by the martyrs of old ; promises of dominion, and wealth, 
and honor ; the agonies of thirst and hunger ; the allurement 
of beauty almost superhuman — had been brought to assail the 



106 THE SYRIAN LADY. 

faith of the despairing but undaunted prisoner : and each temp- 
tation had been tried but to prove how unflinching was his res- 
olution, and how implicit his faith in that Rock of Ages which 
he had ever served with enthusiastic, at least, if erring zeal, 
and with a fervency of love which no peril could shake, no 
pleasure could seduce from its serene fidelity. 

At length, when hope itself was almost dead within his 
breast ; when ransom after ransom had been vainly offered ; 
when the noblest moslem captives had been tendered in ex- 
change for his inestimable head ; and, to crown the whole, 
when the no-longer united powers of the crusading league had 
departed from the shores on which they had lavished so much 
of their best blood — his deliverance from the fetters of the in- 
fidel was accomplished by one of those extraordinary circum- 
stances which the world calls chance, but which the Christian 
knows how to attribute to the infinite mercies of an overruling 
Providence. The eagerness of the politic sultan — whose name 
ranks as high among the tribes of Islam as the glory of his op- 
ponents among the pale sons of Europe — to obtain proselytes 
from the nations which, he had the sagacity to perceive w r ere 
no less superior to the wandering hordes of the desert in arts 
than in arms, had led him to break through those laws which 
are so intimately connected with the religion of Mohammed — 
the laws of the harem ! As the pious faith of the western war- 
rior appeared to gain fresh vigor from every succeeding temp- 
tation, so did the anxiety of his conqueror increase to gain over 
to his cause a spirit the value of which was daily rendered 
more and more conspicuous. In order to bring about this end, 
after every other device had failed, he commanded the admis- 
sion to the Briton's cell of the fairest maiden of his harem — a 
maid whose pure and spotless beauty went further to prove her 
unblemished descent than even the titles which were assigned 
to the youthful Leila, of almost royal birth. 



LEILA AND THE CHRISTIAN CAPTIVE. 107 

Dazzled by her charms, and intoxicated by the fascination 
of her manner, her artless wit, and her delicate timidity, so far 
removed from the unbridled passion of such other eastern beau- 
ties as had visited his solitude, the Christian soldier betrayed 
such evident delight in listening to her soft words, and such 
keen anxiety for a repetition of the interview, that the oriental 
monarch believed that he had in sooth prevailed. Confidently, 
however, as he had calculated on the conversion of the believ- 
ing husband by the unbelieving wife, the bare possibility of an 
opposite result had never once occurred to his distorted vision. 
But truly has it been said, "Magna est Veritas et pr&valcbit !" 
The damsel who had been sent to create emotion in the breast 
of another, was the first to become its victim herself: she whose 
tutored tongue was to have won the prisoner from the faith of 
his fathers, was herself the first to fall away from the creed of 
her race. Enamored, beyond the reach of description, of the 
good knight, whose attractions of person were no less superior 
to the boasted beauty of the oriental nobles, than his rich and 
enthusiastic mind soared above their prejudiced understandings, 
she had surrendered her whole soul to a passion as intense as 
the heat of her native climate ; she had lent a willing ear to 
the fervid eloquence of her beloved, and had drank in fresh 
passion from the very language which had won her reason 
from the debasing superstitions of Islamism to the bright and 
everlasting splendors of the Christian faith. From this moment 
the eastern maid became the bride of his affections, the solace 
of his weary hours, the object of his brightest hopes. He had 
discovered that she was worthy of his love ; he was sure that 
her whole being was devoted to his welfare ; and he struggled 
no longer against the spirit with which he had battled, as un- 
worthy his country, his name, and his religion. 

It was not long ere the converted maiden had planned the 
escape, and actually effected the deliverance, of her affianced 



108 THE SYRIAN LADY. 

lover. She had sworn to join him in his flight ; she had prom- 
ised to accompany him to his distant country, and to be the star 
of his ascendant destinies, as she had been the sole illuminator 
to his hours of desolation and despair. 

Rescued from his fetters, he had lain in concealment on the 
rocky shores of the Mediterranean, anxiously awaiting the ves- 
sel which was to convey him to the land of his birth, and her 
whose society alone could render his being supportable. The 
vessel arrived : but what was the agony of his soul on learning 
that she whom he prized above light, and life, and all save vir- 
tue, had fallen a sacrifice to the furious disappointment of her 
indignant countrymen ! Maddened with grief, and careless of 
an existence which had now become a burden rather than a 
treasure, he would have returned to avenge the wrongs of his 
lost Leila, and perish on her grave, had not her emissaries — 
conscious that in such a case the fate which had befallen the 
mistress must undoubtedly be theirs likewise — compelled him 
to secure their common safety by flight. 

After weary wanderings, he had returned a heart-stricken 
wretch to his native England, at that moment rejoicing with 
unfeigned delight at the recovery of her heroic king. He 
sometimes mingled in the labors of the council or the luxuries 
of the banquet, but it was evident to all that his mind was far 
away ! that for him there might indeed be the external sem- 
blance of joy, but that all within was dark and miserable ! It 
was plain that, in the words of the poet — 

" That heavy chill had frozen o'er the fountains of the tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice appears." 

On this morning of universal joy — to him a period fraught 
with the gloomiest recollections, for it was the anniversary of 
that sad day on which he had parted from the idol of his heart, 
never to behold her more ! — on this morning he had secluded 
himself from the sight of men ; he was alone with his memory ! 



THE DESPONDING LOVER. 109 

His eyes indeed rested on the letters of an illuminated missal 
which lay open before him ; but the long, dark lock of silky 
hair which was grasped in his feverish hand, showed too 
plainly that his grief was still of that harrowing and fiery char- 
acter which prevents the mind from tasting as yet the consola- 
tions of Divine truth. He had sat thus for hours, unconscious 
of the passing multitude, whose every sound was borne to his 
unheeding ears by the fresh breeze of spring. His courtly 
robe and plumed bonnet, his collar, spurs, and sword, lay be- 
side him, arranged for the approaching festival by his officious 
page ; but no effort could have strung his nerves or hardened 
his heart on that day to bear with the frivolous ceremonies and 
false glitter of a court. He recked not now whether his pres- 
ence would lend a zest to the festival, or whether his absence 
might be construed into offence. The warrior, the politician, 
the man, were merged in the lover ! Utter despondency had 
fallen upon his spirit. Like the oak of his native forests, he 
was proud and unchanged in appearance, but the worm was 
busy at his heart. Even tears would have been a relief to the 
dead weight of despair which had benumbed his very soul ; 
but never, since that fatal hour, had one drop relieved the 
aching of his brain, or one smile gleamed across his haggard 
features. Mechanically he fulfilled his part in society : he 
moved, he spoke, he acted, like his fellow-men ; but he was 
now become, from the most ardent and impetuous of his kind, 
a mere creature of habit and circumstance. 

So deeply was he now absorbed in his dark reveries, that 
the increasing clamor of the multitude had escaped his atten- 
tion, although the character of the sounds was no longer that 
of unmingled pleasure. The voices of men, harsh and pitched 
in an unnatural key, rude oaths, and tumultuous confusion, pro- 
claimed that, if not engaged in actual violence, the mob was at 
least ripe for mischief. More than once, during the continu- 



110 THE SYRIAN LADY. 

ance of these turbulent sounds, had the plaintive accents of a 
female voice been distinctly audible — when on a sudden a 
shriek arose of such fearful import, close beneath the casements 
of the abstracted baron, that it thrilled to his very heart. It 
seemed to his excited fancy that the notes of a well-remembered 
voice lent their music to that long-drawn cry ; nay, he almost 
imagined that his own name was indistinctly blended in that 
yell of fear. 

With the speed of light he had sprung to his feet, and hur- 
ried to the lattice ; but twice before he reached it, had the 
cry repeated, calling on the name of " Gilbert !" with a plain- 
tive energy that could no longer be mistaken. He gained the 
embrasure, dashed the trellised blinds apart, and there — strug- 
gling in the licentious grasp of the retainers who ministered to 
the brutal will of some haughty noble — her raven tresses scat- 
tered to the winds of heaven, her turbaned shawl and flowing 
caftan rent and disordered by the rude hands of lawless vio- 
lence — he beheld a female form of unrivalled symmetry, clad 
in the well-remembered garments of the East. Her face was 
turned from him, and the dark masses of hair which had es- 
caped from their confinement entirely concealed her features ; 
still there was an undefined resemblance which acted so keenly 
upon his feelings, that the thunder of heaven could scarcely 
burst with a more appalling crash above the heads of the guilty 
than did the powerful tones of the crusader as he bade them, 
" as they valued life, release the damsel !" With a rapid shud- 
der which ran through every limb at his clear summons, she 
turned her head. It was — it was his own lost Leila ! the high 
and polished brow ; the eyes that rivalled in languor the boasted 
organs of the wild gazelle ; the rapturous ecstasy that kindled 
every lineament as she recognised her lover's form — 

"the voice that clove through all the din, 

As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash, 
Jarred but not drowned by the loud brattling" — 






THE LOST ONE FOUND. Ill 

were all, all Leila's ! To snatch his sword from its scabbard, 
to vault at a single bound from the lofty casement, to force his 
way through the disordered press, to level her audacious assail- 
ants to the earth, was but a moment's work for the gigantic 
power of the knight, animated as he now was by all those feel- 
ings which can minister valor to the most timid, and give 
strength to the feeblest arm ! He beheld her whom he had 
believed to be snatched for ever from his heart, nor could hun- 
dreds of mail-clad soldiers have withstood his furious onset ! 
He had already clasped his recovered treasure in one nervous 
arm, while with the other he brandished aloft the trusty blade, 
which had so often carried havoc and terror to the centre of the 
moslem lines ; when the multitude, enraged at the interference 
of a stranger with what to them appeared the laudable occupa- 
tion of persecuting a witch or infidel, seconded by the bold ruf- 
fians who had first laid hand upon the lovely foreigner, rushed 
bodily onward, threatening to overpower all resistance by the 
weight of numbers. 

Gallantly, however, and at the same time mercifully, did Sir 
Gilbert a-Becket support his previous reputation. Dealing 
sweeping blows with his huge falchion on every side, yet shun- 
ning to use the point or edge, he had cleft his way in safety to 
the threshold of his own door. Yet even then the final issue 
of the strife was far from certain ; for so sudden had been the 
exit of the baron, and from so unusual an outlet, that none of 
his household were conscious of their lord's absence, and the 
massy portal was closed against the entrance of the lawful 
owner. Stones and staves flew thick around him ; and so 
fiercely did the leaders of the furious mob press upon his re- 
treat, that, yielding at length to the dictates of his excited spirit, 
he dealt the foremost a blow which would have cloven him to 
the teeth though he had been fenced in triple steel ; thunder- 
ing at the same time with his booted heel against the oaken 



112 THE SYRIAN LADY. 

leaves of his paternal gate, and shouting to page and squire 
within till the vaulted passages rang forth in startled echoes. 

At this critical moment the din of martial music, which had 
long been approaching, heralded the royal procession ; though 
so actively were the rioters engaged in their desperate onset, 
and so totally engrossed was the baron in the rescue of his re- 
covered bride, that neither party were aware of it until its 
clangor rang close at hand, and a dazzling cavalcade of knights 
and nobles came slowly on the scene of action. 

Of stature almost gigantic, noble features, and kingly bear- 
ing — his garb glittering with gold and jewels till the dazzled 
eye could scarcely brook its splendor ; backing a steed which 
seemed as though its strength and spirit might have borne Go- 
liath to the field ; and wielding a blade which no other arm in 
Christendom could have poised even for a second — the lion- 
hearted Richard, followed by every noble of his realm, dashed 
with his native impetuosity into the centre. 

" Ha ! St. George !" he shouted, in a voice heard clearly 
above the minoled clang of instruments and the tumult of the 
conflict ; " have ye no better way to keep our festival than thus 
to take base odds on one ? Shame on ye, vile recreants ! What, 
ho !" he cried, as he recognised the person of the knight, " our 
good comrade a-Becket thus hard bestead ! Hence to your 
your kennels, ye curs of England ! — dare ye match yourselves 
against the Lion and his brood ?" 

Loud rang the acclamations of the throng, accustomed to the 
blunt boldness of their warrior-king, and losing sight of his 
haughty language in joy for his return and admiration of the 
additional glory which had accrued to the whole nation from the 
prowess of its champion : " God save thee, gallant lion-heart ! 
Never was so brave a knight ! never so noble a king !" 

Louder still was the wonder of the monarch and his assem- 
bled court when they learned the strange adventure which had 






leila's perilous journey. 113 

been brought to so fair a conclusion by their unexpected suc- 
cor. The lady threatened with the lasting indignation of the 
royal Saladin, though never really in danger of life, had devised 
the false report of her own death — knowing that it were hope- 
less for her to dream of flight, so long as the eyes of all were 
concentrated on her in dark and angry suspicion ; and knowing 
also that no dread of instant dissolution nor hope of liberty 
could have induced her devoted lover to have quitted the land 
while she remained in " durance vile." 

When the first excitement — caused by the escape of a pris- 
oner so highly esteemed as was the bold crusader — had ceased 
to agitate the mussulman divan, and affairs had returned to 
their usual course — easily escaping from the vigilance of the 
haram guard, she had made good her flight to the seabathed 
towers of Venice, and thence to the classic plains of Italy. 
Then it was that the loneliness of her situation, the perils, the 
toils, the miseries which she must necessarily endure, weighed 
no less heavily on her tender spirits, than the unwonted labor 
of so toilsome a journey on her delicate and youthful frame. 
Ignorant of any European language, save the name of her lover, 
and the metropolis of his far-distant country, her sole reply to 
every query was the repetition, in her musical, although im- 
perfect accents, of the words — "London," "Gilbert." Mar- 
vellous it is to relate — and were it not, in good sooth, history 
too marvellous — that her talismanic speech did at length con- 
vey her through nations hostile to her race, through the almost 
uninhabited forest, and across the snowy barrier of the Alps, 
through realms laid waste by relentless banditti, and cities 
teeming with licentious and merciless adventurers, to the 
chalky cliffs and verdant meadows of England ! For weeks 
had she wandered through the streets of the vast metrop- 
olis, jeered by the cruel, and pitied, but unaided, by the mer- 
ciful — tempted by the wicked, and shunned by the virtu- 



114 THE SYRIAN LADY. 

ous — repeating ever and anon her simple exclamation, " Gil- 
bert, Gilbert !" till her strength was well nigh exhausted, and 
her spirits were fast sinking into utter despondency and despair. 

On the morning of the festival she had gone forth with hopes 
renewed, when she perceived the concourse of nobles crowd- 
ing to greet their king — for she knew her Gilbert to be high 
in rank and favor — and fervently did she trust that this day 
would be the termination of her miseries. Again was she mis- 
erably deceived ; so miserably that, perchance, had not the 
very assault which had threatened her with death or degrada- 
tion restored her, as it were by magic, to the arms of him whom 
she had so tenderly and truly loved, she had sunk that night be- 
neath the pressure of grief and anxiety, too poignant to be long 
endured. But so it was not ordained by that perfect Providence, 
which, though it may for a time suffer bold vice to triumph, and 
humble innocence to mourn, can ever bring real good out of 
seeming evil ; and whose judgments are so inevitably, in the end, 
judgments of mercy and of truth, that well might the minstrel 
king declare of old, in the inspired language of holy writ — 

" I have been young, and now am old, yet have I not seen 
the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread." 



THE TRIALS OF A TEMPLAR; 

A SKETCH OF THE CRUSADES. 



" The Lord is on my side ; I will not fear what can man do unto me." 
Psalm cxviii. 6. 

A summer-day in Syria was rapidly drawing toward its 
close, as a handful of European cavalry, easily recognised by 
their^ flat-topped helmets, cumbrous hauberks, and chargers 
sheathed like their riders, in plate and mail, were toiling their 
weary way through the deep sand of the desert, scorched 
almost to the heat of molten lead by the intolerable glare of an 
eastern sun. Insignificant in numbers, but high of heart, con- 
fident from repeated success, elated with enthusiastic valor, 
and inspiriting sense of a holy cause, they followed the guidance 
of their leader, one of the best and most tried lances of the 
temple, careless whither, and secure of triumph ; their steel 
armor glowing like burnished gold, their lance-heads flashing 
in the level rays of the setting orb, and the party-colored ban- 
ner of the Beauseant hanging motionless in the still atmosphere. 

Before them lay an interminable waste of bare and dusty 
plain, broken into long swells succeeding each other in monot- 
onous regularity, though occasionally varied by stunted patches 
of thorny shrubs and dwarf palm-trees. As they wheeled round 
one of these thickets, their commander halted suddenly at the 



116 THE TRIALS OF A TEMPLAR. 

sight of some fifty horsemen, whose fluttering garb and tur- 
baned crowns, as well as the springy pace of their Arab steeds, 
proclaimed them natives of the soil, winding along the bottom 
of the valley beneath him, with the stealthy silence of prowl- 
ing tigers. Although the enemy nearly trebled his own force 
in numerical power, without a moment's hesitation Albert of 
Vermandois arrayed his little band, and before the infidels had 
even discovered his presence, much less drawn a blade, or con- 
centrated their scattered line, the dreaded war-cry rung upon 
their ears — "Ha! Beauseant! for the temple! for the tem- 
ple !" and down thundered the irresistible charge of the west- 
ern crusaders on their unguarded flank. Not an instant did 
the Saracens withstand the brunt of the Norman lance ; they 
broke away on all sides, leaving a score of their companions 
stretched to rise no more on the bloody plain. Scarcely, how- 
ever, had the victors checked their blown horses, or reorgan- 
ized their phalanx, disordered by the hot struggle, when the 
distant clang of cymbal, horn, and kettle-drum mingled with the 
shrill lelies of the heathen sounding in every direction, an- 
nounced that their march had been anticipated, their route be- 
set, themselves surrounded. Hastily taking possession of the 
vantage-ground afforded by an abrupt hillock, and dismissing 
the lightest of his party to ride for life to the Christian camp, 
and demand immediate aid, Albert awaited the onset with the 
stern composure which springs from self-possession. A few 
minutes sufficed to show the Christians the extent of their em- 
barrassment, and the imminence of their peril. Three heavy 
masses of cavalry were approaching them from as many differ- 
ent quarters ; their gaudy turbans, gilded arms, and waving pen- 
nons of a hundred hues, blazing in marked contrast to the stern 
and martial simplicity of the iron soldiers of the west. To the 
quick eye of Albert it was instantly evident that their hope con- 
sisted in protracting the conflict till the arrival of succor ; and 



THE ENCOUNTER. 117 

even this hope was diminished by the unwonted velocity with 
which the Mohammedans hurried to the attack. It seemed as 
if they also were aware that, in order to conquer, they must 
conquer quickly ; for, contrary to their usual mode of fighting, 
they charged resolutely upon the very lances of the motionless 
Christians, who, in a solid circle, opposed their mailed breasts 
in firm array to their volatile antagonists. Fiercely, however, 
as they charged, their lighter coursers recoiled before the bone 
and weight of the European war-steeds. The lances of the 
crusaders were shivered in the onset ; but to the thrust of these 
succeeded the deadly sweep of the twohanded swords, flashing 
above the cimeters of the infidel with the sway of some terrific 
engine. Time after time the eastern warriors rushed on, time 
after time they retreated, like the surf from some lonely rock 
on which it has wasted its thunders in vain. At length they 
changed their plan, and wheeling in rapid circles, poured their 
arrows in as fast, and for a time as fruitlessly, as the snow- 
storm of a December day. On they came again, right upon the 
point where Vermandois was posted, headed by a tall chieftain, 
distinguished no less by his gorgeous arms than by his gallant 
bearing. Rising in his stirrups, when at a few paces distance, 
he hurled his long javelin full in the face of the crusader. 
Bending his crest to the saddle-bow, as the dart passed harm- 
lessly over him, Albert cast his massive battle-axe in return. 
The tremendous missile rustled past the chief at whom it was 
aimed, and smote his shield-bearer to the earth, at the very 
moment when an arrow pierced the templar's charger through 
the eyeball to the brain. The animal, frantic with the pain, 
bounded forward and rolled lifeless, bearing his rider with him 
to the ground ; yet even in that last struggle the stern knight 
clave the turbaned leader down to the teeth before he fell. 
Five hundred horse dashed over him — his array was broken 
■ — his companions were hewn from their saddles, even before 



118 THE TRIALS OF A TEMPLAR. 

their commander was snatched from beneath the trampling 
hoofs, disarmed, fettered, and reserved for a doom to which the 
fate of his comrades had been a boon of mercy. Satisfied with 
their success, and aware that a few hours at the farthest must 
bring up the rescue from the Christian army, the Saracens re- 
treated as rapidly as they had advanced ; all night long they 
travelled with unabated speed toward their inaccessible fast- 
nesses, in the recesses of their wild mountains. Arrived at 
their encampment, the prisoner was cast into a dungeon hewn 
from the living rock. Day after day rolled heavily on, and 
Albert lay in utter darkness, ignorant of his destiny, unvisited 
by any being except the swart and bearded savage who brought 
the daily pittance, scarcely sufficient for the wants of his 
wretched existence. 

Albert of Vermandois, a Burgundian youth of high nobility, 
and yet more exalted renown, had left his native land stung 
almost to madness by the early death of her to whom he had 
vowed his affections, and whose name he had already made 
" glorious by his sword," from the banks of the Danube to the 
pillars of Hercules. He had bound the cross upon his breast, 
he had mortified all worldly desires, all earthly passions, be- 
neath the strict rule of his order. While yet in the flush and 
pride of manhood, before a gray hair had streaked his dark 
locks, or a single line wrinkled his lofty brow, he had changed 
his nature, his heart, his very being ; he had attained a height 
of dignity and fame scarcely equalled by the best and noblest 
warriors of the temple. The vigor of his arm, the vast scope 
of his political foresight, no less than the unimpeached rigor 
of his morals, had long rendered him a glory to his brother- 
hood, a cause of terror and an engine of defeat to the Saracen 
lords of the Holy Land. Many a league had been formed to 
overpower, many a dark plot hatched to inveigle him ; but so 
invariably had he borne down all odds in open warfare before 



THE IMAUM'S VISIT. 119 

his irresistable lance, so certainly had he hurled back all se- 
cret treasons with redoubled vengeance on the heads of the 
schemers, that he was almost deemed the possessor of some 
cabalistic spell, framed for the downfall and destruction of the 
sons of Islam. 

Deep were the consultations of the infidel leaders concern- 
ing the destiny of their formidable captive. The slaughter ac- 
tually wrought by his hand had been so fearful, the ravages 
produced among their armies by his policy so unbounded, that 
a large majority were in favor of his instant execution ; nor 
could human ingenuity devise, or brute cruelty perform, more 
hellish methods of torture than were calmly discussed in that 
infuriate assembly. 

It was late on the third day of his captivity, when the hinges 
of his dungeon-grate creaked, and a broader glare streamed 
through the aperture than had hitherto disclosed the secrets of 
his prisonhouse, The red light streamed from a lamp in the 
grasp of a dark figure — an imaum, known by his high cap of 
lambskin, his loose black robes, his parchment cincture, figured 
with Arabic characters, and the long beard that flowed even 
below his girdle in unrestrained luxuriance. A negro, bearing 
food of a better quality, and the beverage abhorred by the prophet, 
the forbidden juice of the grape, followed — his ivory teeth and 
the livid circles of his eyes glittering with a ghastly whiteness 
in the clear lamp-light. He arranged the unaccustomed dain- 
ties on the rocky floor : the slave withdrew. The priest seated 
himself so that the light should reveal every change of the 
templar's features, while his own were veiled in deep shadow. 

"Arise, young Nazarene," he said, " arise and eat, for to- 
morrow thou shalt die. Eat, drink, and let thy soul be strength- 
ened to bear thy doom ; for as surely as there is one God, and 
one prophet, which is Mohammed, so surely is the black wing 
of Azrael outstretched above thee !" 



120 THE TRIALS OF A TEMPLAR. 

" It is well," was the unmoved reply. "lama consecrated 
knight, and how should a templar tremble ? — a Christian, and 
how should a follower of Jesus fear to die ?" 

" My brother hath spoken wisely, yet is his wisdom but folly. 
Truly hast thou said, ' It is well to die ;' for is it not written 
that the faithful and the yaoor must alike go hence 1 But is it 
the same thing for a warrior to fall amid the flutter of banners 
and the flourish of trumpets — which are to the strong man 
even as the breath of his nostrils, or as the mild shower in 
seedtime to the thirsty plain — and to perish by inches afar from 
his comrades, surrounded by tribes to whom the very name of 
his race is a by-word and a scorn V 

" Now, by the blessed light of heaven !" cried the indignant 
soldier, " rather shouldst thou say a terror and a ruin ; for when 
have the dogs endured the waving of our pennons or the flash 
of our armor ? But it skills not talking — leave me, priest, for 
I abhor thy creed, as I despise thy loathsome impostor !" 

For a short space the wise man of the tribes was silent; he 
gazed intently on the countenance of his foeman, but not a sign 
of wavering or dismay could his keen eye trace in the stern 
and haughty features. "Allah Acbar," he said at length; "to 
God all things are possible : would the Christian live ?" 

"All men would live, and I am but a man," returned the 
knight ; " yet, praise be to Him where all praise is due, I have 
never shrunk from death in the field, nor can he fright me on 
the scaffold. If my Master has need of his servant, he who 
had power to deliver Israel from bondage, and Daniel from the 
jaws of the lion, surely he shall deliver my soul from the power 
of the dog. And if he has appointed for me the crown of mar- 
tyrdom, it shall ne'er be said that Albert of Vermandois was 
deaf to the will of the God of battles and the Lord of hosts." 

" The wise man hath said," replied the slow, musical notes 
of the priest, in strange contrast to the fiery zeal of the pris- 



121 

oner — "the wise man hath said, 'Better is the cottage that 
standeth firm than the tower which tottereth to its fall.' Will 
my brother hear reason ? Cast away the cross from thy breast, 
bind the turban upon thy brow, and behold thou shalt be as a 
prince among our people !" 

" Peace, blasphemer ! I spit at thee — I despise, I defy thee ! 
I, a worshipper of the living Jehovah, shall I debase myself to 
the camel-driver of Mecca 1 Peace ! begone !" He turned 
his face to the wall, folded his arms upon his chest, and was 
silent. No entreaties, no threats of torment, no promises of 
mercy, could induce him again to open his lips. His eyes 
were fixed as if they beheld some shape, unseen by others ; 
his brow was calm, and, but for a slight expression of scorn 
about the muscles of the mouth, he might have passed for a 
visionary. 

After a time, the imaum arose, quitted the cell, and the war- 
rior was again alone. But a harder trial was yet before him. 
The door of his prison opened yet once more, and a form en- 
tered — a being whom the poets in her own land of minstrelsey 
would have described under the types of a young date-tree, 
bowing its graceful head to the breath of evening ; of a pure 
spring in the burning desert ; of a gazelle, bounding over the 
unshaken herbage ; of a dove, gliding on the wings of the morn- 
ing ! And of a truth she was lovely : her jetty hair braided 
above her transparent brow, and floating in a veil of curls over 
her shoulders ; her large eyes swimming in liquid languor ; 
and, above all, that indescribable charm — 

" Hie mind, the music breathing from her face" — 
her form slighter and more sylph-like than the maids of Europe 
can boast, yet rounded into the fairest mould of female beauty 
— all combined to make up a creature resembling rather a houri 
of Mohammed's paradise than 

" One of earth's least earthly daughters." 



122 THE TRIALS OF A TEMPLAR. 

For a moment the templar gazed, as if he doubted whether 
he were not looking upon one of those spirits which are said to 
have assailed and almost shaken the sanctity of many a holy 
anchorite. His heart, for the first time in many years, throbbed 
wildly. He bowed his head between his knees, and prayed 
fervently ; nor did he again raise his eyes, till a voice, as har- 
monious as the breathing of a kite, addressed him in the lingua- 
Franca : — 

" If the sight of his hand-maiden is offensive to the eyes of 
the Nazarene, she will depart as she came, in sorrow." 

The soldier lifted up his eyes, and saw her bending over him 
with so sad an expression of tenderness, that, despite of him- 
self, his heart melted within him, and his answer was courteous 
and even kind : " I thank thee, dear lady, I thank thee for thy 
good will, though it can avail me nothing. But wherefore does 
one so fair, and it may well be so happy as thou art, visit the 
cell of a condemned captive ?" 

" Say not condemned — oh, say not condemned! Thy ser- 
vant is the bearer of life, and freedom, and honor. She saw 
thy manly form, she looked upon thine undaunted demeanor, 
and she loved thee — loved thee to distraction — would follow 
thee to the ends of earth — would die to save thee — has al- 
ready saved thee, if thou wilt be saved ! Rank, honor, life, 
and love — " 

" Lady," he interrupted her, " listen ! For ten long years I 
have not lent my ear to the witchery of a woman's voice. Ten 
years ago, I was the betrothed lover of a maid, I had well-nigh 
said, as fair as thou art. She died — died, and left me deso- 
late ! I have fled from my native land ; I have devoted to my 
God the feelings which I once cherished for your sex. I could 
not give thee love in return for thy love ; nor would I stoop to 
feign that which I felt not, although it were to win, not tempo- 
ral, but eternal life." 



THE TEMPTATION RESISTED. 123 

" Oh ! dismiss me not," she sobbed, as she threw her white 
arms around his neck, and panted on his bosom ; " oh ! dismiss 
me not thus. I ask no vows ; I ask no love. Be but mine ; 
let my country be your country, my God yours — and you are 
safe and free !" 

" My Master," he replied coldly, as he disengaged her grasp, 
and removed her from his arms, " hath said, ' What would it 
profit a man, if he should gain the whole world, and lose his 
own soul V I have listened to thee, lady, and I have answered 
thee ; but my heart is heavy — for it is mournful to see that so 
glorious a form should be the habitation of so frail a spirit. I 
pray thee, leave me ! To-morrow I shall meet my God, and 
I would commune with him now in spirit and in truth !" 

Slowly she turned away, wrapped her face in her veil, and 
moved with faltering steps — wailing as if her heart were about 
to burst — through the low portal. The gate clanged heavily 
as she departed ; but the sounds of her lamentation were audi- 
ble long after the last being, who would show a sign of pity for 
his woes, or of admiration for his merits, had gone forth, never 
again to return ! 

All night long the devotions, the fervent and heartfelt pray- 
ers of the crusader, ascended to the throne of his Master ; and 
often, though he struggled to suppress the feeling, a petition 
for his lovely though deluded visiter was mingled with entreat- 
ies for strength to bear the fate he anticipated. 

Morning came at last, not as in frigid climates of the North 
— creeping through its slow gradations of gray dawn and dap- 
pling twilight — but bursting at once from night into perfect 
day. The prison-gates were opened for the last time, the fet- 
ters were struck off from the limbs of the undaunted captive, 
and himself led forth like a victim to the sacrifice. 

From leagues around, all the hordes of the desert had come 
together, in swarms outnumbering the winged motes that stream 



124 THE TRIALS OF A TEMPLAR. 

like dusty atoms in every sunbeam. It was a strange, and, 
under other circumstances, would have been a glorious spec- 
tacle. In a vast sandy basin, surrounded on every side by low 
but rugged eminences, were the swarthy sons of Syria mus- 
tered, rank above rank, to feast their eyes on the unwonted 
spectacle of a Christian's sufferings. The rude tribes of the 
remotest regions, Arab and Turcoman, mounted on the uncouth 
dromedary, or on steeds of matchless symmetry and unstained 
pedigree, mingling their dark baracans with the brilliant arms 
and gorgeous garbs of the sultan's court — even the unseen 
beauties of a hundred harems watched from their canopied lit- 
ters the preparations for the execution with as much interest 
and as little concern as the belles of our own day exhibit be- 
fore the curtain has been drawn aside which is to disclose the 
performances of a Pedrotti or a Malibran to the enraptured 
audience. 

In the centre of this natural amphitheatre stood the scathed 
and whitening trunk of a thunder-stricken palm. To this inar- 
tificial stake was the captive led. One by one his garments 
were torn asunder, till his muscular form and splendid propor 
tions were revealed in naked majesty to the wondering multi- 
tude. Once, before he was attached to the fatal tree, a formal 
offer of life, and liberty, and high office in the moslem court, 
was tendered to him, on condition of his embracing the faith 
of the prophet. — and refused by one contemptuous motion of 
his hand. He was bound firmly to the stump, with his hands 
secured far above his head. At some fifty paces distant, stood 
a group of dark and fierce warriors, with bended bows and 
well-filled quivers, evidently awaiting the signal to pour in their 
arrowy sleet upon his unguarded limbs. He gazed upon them 
with a countenance unmoved and serene, though somewhat 
paler than its usual tints. His eyes did not, however, long 
dwell on the unattractive sight : he turned them upward, and 



THE TORTURE. 125 

his lips moved at intervals, though no sound was conveyed to 
the ear of the bystanders. 

Some minutes had elapsed thus, when the shrill voice of the 
muezzin was heard, proclaiming the hour of matin-prayer in 
his measured chant : " There is no God but God, and Moham- 
med is his prophet !" In an instant the whole multitude were 
prostrate in the dust, and motionless as though the fatal blast 
of the simoom was careering through the tainted atmosphere. 
A flash of contempt shot across the features of the templar, but 
it quickly vanished in a more holy expression, as he muttered 
to himself the words used on a far more memorable occasion, 
by Divinity itself : " Forgive them, Lord ; they know not what 
they do !*' 

The pause was of short duration. With a rustle like the 
voice of the forest when the first breath of the rising tempest 
agitates its shivering foliage, the multitude rose to their feet. 
A gallant horseman dashed from the cavalcade which thronged 
around the person of their sultan, checked his steed beside the 
archer-band, spoke a few hasty words, and galloped back to 
his station. 

Another minute — and arrow after arrow whistled from the 
Paynim bows, piercing the limbs and even grazing the body 
of the templar ; but not a murmur escaped from the victim — 
scarcely did a frown contract his brow. There was an irradi- 
ation, as if of celestial happiness, upon his countenance ; nor 
could a spectator have imagined for a moment that his whole 
frame was almost convulsed with agony, but for the weapons 
quivering even to their feathered extremities in every joint, 
and the large blood-drops trickling like rain upon the thirsty 
soil! 

Again there was a pause. Circled by his Nubian guard, 
and followed by the bravest and the brightest of his court, the 
sultan himself rode up to the bleeding crusader. Yet, even 



126 THE TRIALS OF A TEMPLAR. 

there, decked with all the pomp of royalty and pride of war, 
goodly in person, and sublime in bearing, the monarch of the 
East was shamed — shamed like a slave before his master — 
by the native majesty of Christian virtue ; nor could the prince 
at first find words to address the tortured mortal who stood at 
his feet with the serene deportment which would have be- 
seemed the judge upon his tribunal no less than the martyr at 
the stake. 

" Has the Nazarene yet learned experience from the bitter 
sting of adversity ? The skill of the leech may yet assuage 
thy wounds, and the honors which shall be poured upon thee 
may yet efface thine injuries — even as the rich grain conceals 
in its luxuriance the furrows of the ploughshare ! Will the 
Nazarene live ? or will he die the death of a dog ?" 

" The Lord is on my side," was the low but firm reply — 
" the Lord is on my side : I will not fear what man doeth unto 
me !" 

On swept the monarch's train, and again the iron shower 
fell fast and fatally — not as before, on the members, but on the 
broad chest and manly trunk. The blood gushed forth in 
blacker streams; the warrior's life was ebbing fast away — 
when from the rear of the broken hills a sudden trumpet blew 
a point of war in notes so thrilling, that it pierced the ears like 
the thrust of some sharp weapon. Before the astonishment of 
the crowd had time to vent itself in word or deed, the emi- 
nences were crowded with the mail-clad myriads of the Chris- 
tian forces ! Down they came, like the blast of the tornado on 
some frail and scattered fleet, with war-cry, and the clang of 
instruments, and the thick trampling of twice ten thousand 
hoofs. Wo to the sons of the desert in that hour ! They were 
swept away before the mettled steeds and levelled lances of the 
templars like dust before the wind, or stubble before the devour- 
ing flame ! 



THE DYING MARTYR. 127 

The eye of the dying hero lightened as he saw the banners 
of his countrymen. His whole form dilated with exultation 
and triumph. He tore his arm from its fetters, waved it around 
his blood-stained forehead, and for the last time shouted forth 
his cry of battle : " Ha ! Beauseant ! A Vermandois for the 
temple !" Then, in a lower tone, he cried : " ' Lord, now let- 
test thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word ; 
for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.' " He bowed his head, 
and his undaunted spirit passed away. 



THE RENEGADO; 

A SKETCH OF THE CRUSADES. 
" how faint and feebly dim 



The fame that eonld accrue to him 

Who cheered the band, and waved the sword, 

A traitor in a turbaned horde." — Seege of Corinth. 

For well nigh two long years bad the walls of Acre rang to 
the war-cries and clashing arms of the contending myriads of 
Christian and Mohammedan forces, while no real advantage 
had resulted to either army, from the fierce and sanguinary 
struggles that daily alarmed the apprehensions, or excited the 
hopes of the besieged. The rocky heights of Carmel now 
echoed to the flourish of the European trumpet, and now sent 
back the wilder strains of the Arabian drum and cymbal. On the 
one side were mustered the gigantic warriors of the western for- 
ests, from the wild frontiers of Germany, and the shores of the 
Baltic ; while on the other were assembled the Moslems of 
Egypt, Syria, and Arabia, the wandering tribes from the Tigris 
to the banks of the Indus, and the swarthy hordes of the Mau- 
ritanian desert. Not a day passed unnoted by some bloody 
skirmish or pitched battle ; — at onetime the sultan forced his 
way into the beleaguered city, and the next moment the cru- 
saders plundered the camp of the Mohammedan. As often 
as by stress of weather the European fleet was driven from its 



THE WAR OF OUTPOSTS. 129 

blockading station, so often were fresh troops poured in to re- 
place the exhausted garrison ; and as fast as the sword of the 
infidel, or the unsparing pestilence, thinned the camp of the 
crusaders, so fast was it replenished by fresh swarms of pil- 
grims, burning with enthusiastic ardor, and aspiring to re-es- 
tablish the dominion of the Latin kings within the precincts of 
the holy city. 

Suddenly, however, the aspect of affairs was altered ; a 
change took place in the tactics of the paynim leaders — a 
change which, in the space of a few weeks, wrought more 
havoc in the lines of the invaders than months of open warfare. 
The regular attacks of marshalled front and steady fighting, 
wherein the light cavalry of the Turkish and Saracen tribes 
invariably gave way before the tremendous charges of the steel- 
clad knights, were exchanged for an incessant and harassing 
war of outposts. Not a drop of water could be conveyed into 
the Christian camp, unless purchased by a tenfold effusion of 
noble blood ; not a picket could be placed in advance of their 
position, but it was inevitably surrounded and cut off; not a 
messenger could be despatched to any Latin city, but he was 
intercepted, and his intelligence rendered subservient to the 
detriment and destruction of the inventors. 

Nor was it long before the author of this new system was 
discovered. In every affair a chieftain was observed, no less 
remarkable for his powerful make, far exceeding the stature and 
slight, though sinewy, frame of his oriental followers, than for 
his skill in disposing his irregular horsemen, so as to act with 
the greatest possible advantage against his formidable, but cum- 
brous opponents. His arms and equipment, moreover, distin- 
guished him yet more clearly than his huge person from his 
paynim coadjutors. His brows indeed were turbaned, but be- 
neath the embroidered shawl and glittering tiara he wore the 
massive cerveilliere and barred vizor of the European headpiece ; 

6* 



130 THE RENEGADO. 

instead of the fluttering caftan and light hauberk, his whole form 
was sheathed in solid mail ; the steed which he bestrode showed 
more bone and muscle than the swift but slender coursers of 
the desert, and was armed on chest and croup with plates of 
tempered steel. Nor, though he avoided to risk his light-armed 
troops against their invulnerable opponents, did he himself 
shrink from the encounter ; on the contrary, ever leading the 
attack and covering the retreat, it seemed his especial delight 
to mingle hand to hand with the best lances of the temple. 
Many a knight had fallen beneath the sweep of his tremendous 
blade, and these not of the unknown and unregarded multitude ; 
for it was ever from among the noblest and the best that he 
singled out his antagonists — his victims — for of all who had 
gone against him, not one had been known to return. So 
great was the annoyance wrought to the armies of the cross by 
the policy, as well as by the valor of the moslem chief, that 
every method had been contrived for overpowering him by 
numbers, or deceiving him by stratagem ; still the sagacity and 
foresight of the infidel had penetrated their deep devices, with 
a certainty as unerring as that with which his huge battle-axe 
had cloven their proudest crests. 

To such a pitch had the terror of his prowess extended, that 
not content with the reality, in itself sufficiently gloomy, the 
soldiers had begun to invest him with the attributes of a 
superhuman avenger. It was observed, that save the gold 
and crimson scarf which bound his iron temples, he was black 
from head to heel-stirrup, and spur, and crest, the trappings of 
his charger, and the animal itself, all dark as the raven's wing 
— that, more than once since he had fought, in the van of the 
mussulmans, strange shouts had been heard ringing above the 
leJies of the paynim, and repeating the hallowed war-cry of the 
Christian in tones of hellish derision — once, too, when he had 
utterly destroyed a little band of templars, a maimed and 



THE MYSTERIOUS ADVERSARY. 131 

wounded wretch, who had escaped from the carnage of his 
brethren, skulking beneath his lifeless horse, averred that, 
while careering at his utmost speed, the charger of the mys- 
terious warrior had swerved in mad consternation from the 
consecrated banner, which had been hurled to the earth, and 
that the sullen head of the rider had involuntarily bowed to the 
saddle-bow as he dashed onward in his course of blood and 
ruin ; and in truth there was enough of the marvellous — in the 
activity by which he avoided all collision with a superior force, 
and in the victories which he bore off day by day from the 
men who, till he had come upon the stage, had only fought to 
conquer — to palliate, if not to justify, some vague and shadowy 
terrors, in an age when the truth of supernatural interference, 
whether of saints or demons, was believed as implicitly as the 
holy writ. Men, who a few weeks before would have gone 
forth to battle against a threefold array of enemies rejoicing as 
if to a banquet, now fought faintly, and began to look for safety 
in a timely retreat, rather than in the deeds of their own right 
hands, as soon as they beheld the sable form of that adversary, 
whom all regarded as something more than a mere human foe ; 
while many believed, that if not a natural incarnation of the 
evil principle, he was, at least, a mortal endowed with power 
to work the mischief designed for his performance, by the in- 
veterate malignity of the arch-fiend himself. And it was a 
fact, very characteristic of the period at which these events 
occurred, that the most accomplished warriors of the time be- 
stowed as much attention on the framing of periapt, and spell, 
and all the arms of spiritual war, as on their mere earthly 
weapons, the spear, the buckler, and the steed. 

The middle watch of night was long passed, and the sky 
was overcast with heavy clouds — what little air was stirring 
came in blasts as close and scorching as though they issued 
from the mouth of an oven. The camp of the crusaders 



132 THE ItENEGADO. 

was silent, and sleeping, all but the vigilant guards, ever 
on the alert to catch the faintest sound, which might portend a 
sally from the walls of the city, or a surprise of the indefatiga- 
ble Saladin from without. 

In the pavilion of Lusignan, the nominal leader of the expe- 
dition, all the chiefs of the crusade had met in deep consulta- 
tion. But the debate was ended ; one by one they had retired 
to their respective quarters, and the Latin monarch was left 
alone, to muse on the brighter prospects which were opening 
to his ambition in the approach of Philip Augustus and the lion- 
hearted Richard, at the head of such an array of gallant spirits 
as might justify his most extravagant wishes. Suddenly his 
musings were interrupted by sounds, remote at first, but gradu- 
ally thickening upon his ear. The faint blast of a distant 
trumpet, and the challenge of sentries, was succeeded by the 
hurried tramp of approaching footsteps ; voices were heard in 
eager and exulting conversation, and lights were seen marshal- 
ling the new-comers to the royal tent. A few moments, and a 
knot of his most distinguished knights stood before him, and, 
with fettered hands, and his black armor soiled with dust and 
blood, the mysterious warrior of the desert, a captive in the 
presence of his conquerors. 

The narration of the victory was brief. A foraging-party 
had ridden forth on the preceding morning, never to return ! — 
for, instructed by his scouts, the infidel had beset their march, 
had assaulted them at nightfall, and destroyed them to a man. 
But his good fortune had at last deserted him. A heavy body 
of knights, with their archers and sergeants, returning from a 
distant excursion, had come suddenly upon his rear when he 
was prosecuting his easy triumph. The moslems, finding them- 
selves abruptly compelled to act on the defensive, were seized 
by one of those panics to which all night-attacks are so liable — 
were thrown into confusion, routed, and cut to pieces. Their 



THE UNKNOWN CAPTIVE. 133 

commander, on the first appearance of the Christians, had 
charged with his wonted fury, before he perceived that he was 
deserted by all, and surrounded past the hope of escape. Here- 
tofore he had fought for victory, now he fought for revenge and 
for death ; and never had he enacted such prodigies of valor as 
now when that valor was about to be extinguished for ever ! 
Quarter was offered to him, and the tender answered by re- 
doubled blows of his weighty axe. Before he could be taken, 
he had surrounded himself with a rampart of dead ; and when 
at length numbers prevailed, and he was a prisoner, so deep 
was the respect of the victors toward so gallant a foe, that all 
former prejudices vanished : and when he had opposed the first 
attempt, to remove his vizor, he was conveyed, unquestioned 
and in all honor, to the tent of the Latin king. 

The time had arrived when further concealment was imprac- 
ticable. The captive stood before the commander of the cru- 
sading force ; and the rules of war, no less than the usages of 
that chivalrous courtesy practised alike by the warriors of the 
West and their oriental foemen, required that he should remove 
the vizor which still concealed his features. Still, however, he 
stood motionless, with his arms folded across his breast, resem- 
bling rather the empty panoply which adorns some hero's mon- 
ument than a being instinct with life, and agitated by all the 
passions to which the mortal heart is liable. Words were ad- 
dressed to him in the lingua-Franca, or mixed language, which 
had obtained during those frequent intervals of truce which 
characterized the nature of the holy wars — breaking into the 
bloody gloom of strife as an occasional ray of sunshine illumi- 
nates the day of storm and darkness — but no effect was pro- 
duced by their sound on the proud or perhaps uncomprehend- 
ing prisoner. 

For a moment, their former terrors, which had vanished on 
the fall of their dreaded opponent, appeared to have regained 



134 THE RENEGADO. 

their ascendency over the superstitious hearts of the unenlight- 
ened warriors : many there were who confidently expected that 
the removal of the iron mask would disclose the swart and 
thunder-stricken brow, the fiery glance, and the infernal as- 
pect, of the prince of darkness ! No resistance was offered 
when the chamberlain of Guy de Lusignan stepped forward, 
and with all courtesy unlaced the fastenings of the casque and 
gorget. The clasps gave way, and scarcely could a deeper 
consternation or a more manifest astonishment have fallen upon 
the beholders had the king of terrors himself glared forth in 
awful revelation from that iron panoply. It was no dark-com- 
plexioned Saracen — 

" In shadowed livery of the burnished sun," 

with whiskered lip and aquiline features, who struck such a 
chill by his appearance on every heart. The pale skin, the 
full blue eye, the fair curls that clustered round the lofty brow, 
bespoke an unmixed descent from the tribes of some northern 
land of mountain and forest ; and that eye, that brow, those lin- 
eaments, were all familiar to the shuddering circle as the re- 
flexion of their own in the polished mirror. 

One name burst at once from every lip in accents of the 
deepest scorn. It was the name of one whose titles had stood 
highest upon their lists of fame ; whose deeds had been cele- 
brated by many a wandering minstrel even among the remote 
hills of Caledonia or the morasses of green Erin ; the valor of 
whose heart and the strength of whose arm had been related 
far and near by many a pilgrim ; whose untimely fall had been 
mourned by many a maid beside the banks of his native Rhine ! 
— "Arnold of Falkenhorst !" The frame of the culprit was 
convulsed till the meshes of his linked mail clattered from the 
nervous motion of the limbs which they enclosed ; a crimson 
flush passed across his countenance, but not a word escaped 



UPLIFTED WEAPONS ARRESTED. 135 

from his lips, and he gazed straight before him with a fixed, 
unmeaning stare — how sadly changed from the glance of fire 
which would so short a time ago have quelled with its in- 
dignant lightning the slightest opposition to his indomitable 
pride ! 

For an instant all remained petrified, as it were, by wonder 
and vexation of spirit. The next moment a fierce rush toward 
the captive, with naked weapons and bended brows, threatened 
immediate destruction to the wretched renegado. 

Scarcely, however, was this spirit manifested, before it was 
checked by the grand-master of the temple, who stood beside 
the seat of Lusignan. He threw his venerable person be- 
tween the victim and the uplifted weapons that thirsted for his 
blood. 

"Forbear!" he cried, in the deep tones of determination — 
" forbear, soldiers of the cross, and servants of the Most High ! 
Will ye contaminate your knightly swords with the base gore 
of a traitor to his standard, a denier of his God ? Fitter the 
axe of the headsman, or the sordid gibbet, for the recreant and 
coward ! Say forth, Beau Sire de Lusignan — have I spoken 
well ?" 

" Well and nobly hast thou spoken, Amaury de Montleon," 
replied the monarch. " By to-morrow's dawn shall the captive 
meet the verdict of his peers ; and if they condemn him — by 
the cross which I wear on my breast, and the faith to which I 
trust for salvation, shall he die like a dog on the gallows, and 
his name shall be infamous for ever ! Lead him away, Sir 
John de Crespigny, and answer for your prisoner with your 
head ! And you, fair sirs, meet me at sunrise in the tiltyard : 
there will we sit in judgment before our assembled hosts, and 
all men shall behold our doom. Till then, farewell !" 

In the dogged silence of despair was the prisoner led away, 
and in the silence of sorrow and dismay the barons of that proud 



136 THE RENEGADO. 

array passed away from the presence of the king : and the night 
was again solitary and undisturbed. 

It wanted a full hour of the appointed time for the trial, when 
the swarming camp poured forth its many-tongued multitudes 
to the tiltyard. The volatile Frenchman, the proud and taci- 
turn Castilian, the resolute Briton, and the less courtly knights 
of the German empire, crowded to the spot. It was a vast 
enclosure, surrounded with palisades, and levelled with the 
greatest care, for the exhibition of that martial skill on which 
the crusaders set so high a value, and provided with elevated 
seats for the judges of the games — now to be applied to a more 
important and awful decision. 

The vast multitude was silent, every feeling absorbed in 
breathless expectation ; every brow was knit, and every heart 
was quivering with that sickening impatience which makes us 
long to know all that is concealed from our vision by the dark 
clouds of futurity, even if that all be the worst — 

"The dark and hideous close, 
Even to intolerable woes!" 

This expectation had already reached its highest pitch, when, 
as the sun reared his broad disk in a flood of radiance above 
the level horizon of the desert, a mournful and wailing blast of 
trumpets announced the approach of the judges. Arrayed in 
their robes of peace, with their knightly belts and spurs, rode 
the whilome monarch of Jerusalem, and the noblest chiefs of 
every different nation which had united to form one army un- 
der the guidance of one commander. Prelates, and peers, and 
knights — all who had raised themselves above the mass, in 
wdiich all were brave and noble, by distinguished talents of 
either war or peace — had been convoked to sit in judgment 
on a cause which concerned no less the welfare of the holy 
church and the interests of religion than the discipline and 



THE TRIBUNAL. 137 

laws of war. The peers of France and England, and the dig- 
nitaries of the empire, many of whom were present, although 
their respective kings had not yet reached the shores of Pales- 
tine — were clad in their robes and caps of maintenance, the 
knights in the surcoats and collars of their orders, and the pre- 
lates in all the splendor of pontifical decoration. A strong 
body of knights, whose rank did not as yet entitle them to seats 
in the council, were marshalled like pillars of steel, in full 
caparison of battle, around the listed field, to prevent the escape 
of the prisoner, no less than to guard his person from premature 
violence, had such been attempted by the enthusiastic and in- 
dignant concourse. 

Arnold of Falkenhorst — stripped of his Moorish garb, and 
wearing in its stead his discarded robes of knighthood, his col- 
lar and blazoned shield about his neck, his golden spurs on his 
heel, and his swordless scabbard belted to his side — was 
placed before his peers, to abide their verdict. Beside him 
stood a page, displaying his crested burgonet and the banner of 
his ancient house, and behind him a group of chosen warders, 
keeping a vigilant watch on every motion. But the precaution 
seemed needless : the spirits of the prisoner had sunk, and he 
seemed deserted alike by the almost incredible courage which 
he had so often displayed, and by the presence of mind for 
which he had been so widely and so justly famous. His coun- 
tenance, even to his lips, was as white as sculptured marble, 
and his eyes had a dead and vacant glare ; and scarcely did he 
seem conscious of the purpose for which that multitude was 
collected around him. Once, and once only, as his eye fell 
upon the fatal tree, which cast its long shadow in terrible dis- 
tinctness across the field of judgment, with its accursed noose, 
and the ministers of blood around it, a rapid and convulsive 
shudder ran through every limb ; it was but a momentary affec- 
tion, and, when passed, no sign of emotion could be traced in 



138 THE REXEGADO. 

his person, unless it were a slight and almost imperceptible 
rocking of his whole frame from side to side, as he stood await- 
ing his doom. Utter despondency seemed to have taken pos- 
session of his whole soul ; and the soldier who had looked un- 
moved into the very eye of death in the field, sunk like the 
veriest coward under the apprehensions of that fate which he 
had no longer the resolution to bear like a man. 

The herald stepped forth, in his quartered tabard and crown 
of dignity, and the trumpeter by his side blew a summons on 
his brazen instrument that might have waked the dead. While 
the sounds were yet ringing in the ears of all, the clear voice 
of the king-at-arms cried aloud : " Arnold of Falkenhorst, count, 
banneret, and baron, hear ! Thou standest this day before thy 
peers, accused of heresy and treason ; a forsworn and perjured 
knight ; a deserter from thy banner, and a denier of thy God ; 
leagued with the pagan dogs against the holy church ; a recre- 
ant, a traitor, and a renegado ; with arms in thine hands wert 
thou taken, battling against the cross which thou didst swear to 
maintain with the best blood of thy veins ! Speak ! dost thou 
disavow the deed ?" 

The lips of Arnold moved, but no words came forth. It 
seemed as if some swelling convulsion of his throat smothered 
his utterance. There was a long pause, all expecting that the 
prisoner would seek to justify his defection, or challenge — as 
his last resource — the trial by the judgment of God. The 
rocking motion of his frame increased, and it almost appeared 
as if he were about to fall upon the earth. The trumpet's din 
again broke the silence, and the herald's voice again made 
proclamation : 

"Arnold of Falkenhorst, speak now, or hear thy doom! — 
and then for ever hold thy peace !" 

No answer was returned to the second summons ; and, at 
the command of Lusignan, the peers and princes of the crusade 



THE CONDEMNATION. 139 

were called upon for their award. Scarcely had he ceased, 
before the assembled judges rose to their feet like a single 
man. In calm determination they laid each one his extended 
hand upon his breast, and, like the distant mutterings of thun- 
der, was heard the fatal verdict — " Guilty, upon mine honor !" 

The words were caught up by the myriads that were col- 
lected around, and shouted till the welkin rang : " Guilty, guil- 
ty ! — To the gibbet with the traitor !" 

As soon as the tumult was appeased, Guy de Lusignan arose 
from his lofty seat, and — the herald making proclamation after 
him — pronounced the judgment of the court: — 

" Arnold of Falkenhorst, whilome count of the empire, belted 
knight, and sworn soldier of the cross ! by thy peers hast thou 
been tried, and by thy peers art thou condemned ! Traitor, 
recreant, and heretic — discourteous gentleman, false knight, 
and fallen Christian — hear thy doom! The crest shall be 
erased from thy burgonet ; the spurs shall be hewn from thine 
heels ; the bearings of thy shield shall be defaced ; the name 
of thy house shall be forgotten ! To the holy church are thy 
lands and lordships forfeit! On the gibbet shalt thou die like 
a dog, and thy body shall be food for the wolf and the vulture !" 

" It is the will of God," shouted the assembled nations, " it 
is the will of God !" 

As soon as the sentence was pronounced — painful, degra- 
ding, abhorrent as that sentence was — some portion of the 
prisoner's anxiety was relieved ; at least, his demeanor was 
more firm. He raised his eyes, and looked steadily upon the 
vast crowd which was exulting in his approaching degradation. 
If there was no composure on his brow, neither was there that 
appearance of abject depression by which his soul and body 
had appeared to be alike prostrated. Nay, for an instant his 
eye flashed and his lip curled, as he tore the collar of knight- 
hood and the shield from his neck, and cast them at the feet of 



140 THE RENEGADO. 

the herald, who was approaching to fulfil the decree. " I had 
discarded them before," he said, " nor does it grieve me now 
to behold them thus." Yet, notwithstanding the vaunt, his 
proud spirit was stung — stung more deeply by the sense of 
degradation than by the fear of death. The spurs which had 
so often goaded his charger to glory, amid the acclamations and 
admiration of thousands, were hacked from his heels by the 
sordid cleaver ; the falcon-crest, which had once been a rally- 
ing-point and a beacon amid the dust and confusion of the fight, 
was shorn from his casque ; the quarterings of many a noble fam- 
ily were erased from his proud escutcheon, and the shield itself 
reversed and hung aloft upon the ignominious tree. The pride 
which had burst into a momentary blaze of indignation, had 
already ceased to act upon his flagging spirits ; and, when a 
confessor was tendered to him, and he was even offered the 
privilege of readmission within the pale of the church, he 
trembled. 

" The crime — if crime there be — is his," he said, pointing 
toward Guy de Lusignan. " I had served him, and served the 
cross, as never man did, had he not spurned me with injury, and 
disgraced me before his court, when I sought the hand of her 
whom I had rescued by my lance from paynim slavery. Had I 
been the meanest soldier in the Christian army, my deeds had 
won me a title to respect, at least, if not to favor. De Lusignan 
and his haughty daughter drove me forth to seek those rights 
and that honor from the gratitude of the infidel which were de- 
nied by my brothers-in-arms. If I am a sinner, he made me 
what I am ; and now he slays me for it ! I say not, ' Let him 
give me the hand which he then denied me ;' but let him spare 
my life, and I am again a Christian ; my sword shall again 
shine in the van of his array ; the plots, the stratagems, the 
secrets of the moslem, shall be his. I, even I, the scorned and 
condemned renegado, can do more to replace De. Lusignan on 



THE EXECUTION. 141 

the throne of Jerusalem than the lances of ten thousand crusa- 
ders — ay, than the boasted prowess of Co?ur de Lion, or the 
myriads of France and Austria ! All this will I do for him — 
all this, and more — if he but grants me life. I can not — I 
dare not die! — What said I? — I a Falkenhorst, and dare 
not !" 

" Thy life is forfeit," replied the unmoved priest ; " thy life 
is forfeit, and thy words are folly. For who would trust a trai- 
tor to his liege lord, a deserter of his banner, and a denier of 
his faith ? Death is before thee — death and immortality ! Be- 
ware lest it be an immortality of evil and despair — of the name 
that is unquenchable — of the worm that never dies! I say 
unto thee, ' Put not thy trust in princes,' but turn thee to Him 
who alone can say, ' Thy sins be forgiven !' Bend thy knee 
before the throne of grace ; pluck out the bitterness from thine 
heart, and the pride from thy soul; and 'though thy sins be 
redder than scarlet, behold they shall be whiter than snow !' 
Confess thy sins, and repent thee of thy transgressions, and He 
who died upon the mount for sinners, even he shall open unto 
thee the gates of everlasting life." 

" It is too late," replied the wretched culprit, " it is too late ! 
If I die guilty, let the punishment light on those who shall have 
sent me to my last account. Away, priest! give me life, or 
leave me !" 

"Slave!" cried the indignant priest — "slave and coward, 
perish ! — and be thy blood, and the blood of Him whom thou 
hast denied, upon thine own head !" 

Not another word was spoken. He knew that all was hope- 
less — that he must die, unpitied and despised ; and in sullen 
silence he yielded himself to his fate. The executioners led 
him to the fatal tree : his arms were pinioned — the noose ad- 
justed about his muscular neck. In dark and gloomy despair 
he looked for the last time around him. He gazed upon the 



142 THE REXEGAD0. 

lists, which had so often witnessed the display of his unrivalled 
horsemanship, and echoed to the applauses which greeted his 
appearance on the field of mimic war ; he gazed on many a fa- 
miliar and once-friendly face, all scowling on him in hatred 
and disdain. Heart-sick, hopeless, and dismayed, he closed 
his aching eyes ; and, as he closed them, the trumpets, to whose 
cheering sound he had so often charged in glory, rang forth the 
signal of his doom ! The pulleys creaked hoarsely — the rope 
was tightened even to suffocation — and the quivering frame 
struggled out its last agonies, amid the unheeded execrations 
of the infuriate multitude ! 

" Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath, 
Heralded his way to death : 
Ere his very thought could pray, 
Unanealed he passed away, 
Without a hope from mercy's aid — 
To the last, a renegade !" 



LEGENDS 



FEUDAL DAYS. 



THE FALSE LADYE. 



CHAPTER I. 

There were merriment and music in the Chateau des Tour- 
nelles — at that time the abode of France's royalty ! — music 
and merriment, even from the break of day ! That was a sin- 
gular age, an age of great transitions. The splendid spirit- 
stirring soul of chivalry was alive yet among the nations — 
yet ! although fast declining, and destined soon to meet its 
death-blow in the spear-thrust that hurled the noble Henry, 
last victim of its wondrous system, at once from saddle and 
from throne ! In every art, in every usage, new science had 
effected even then mighty changes ; yet it was the old world 
still ! Gunpowder, and the use of musketry and ordnance, 
had introduced new topics ; yet still knights spurred their 
barbed chargers to the shock, still rode in complete steel 
— and tilts and tournaments still mustered all the knightly 
and the noble ; and banquets at high noon, and balls in the 
broad daylight, assembled to the board or to the dance, the 
young, the beautiful, and happy. 

There were merriment and music in the court, the hall, the 
staircase, the saloons of state ! All that France held of beau- 
tiful,. and bright, and brave, and wise, and noble, were gathered 

7 



146 THE FALSE LADYE. 

to the presence of their king. And there were many there, 
well-known and honored in those olden days ; well-known and 
honored ever after. The first, in person as in place, was the 
great king! the proud, and chivalrous, and princely ! becoming 
his high station at all times and in every place ; wearing his 
state right gracefully and freely — the second Henry ! — and at 
his side young Francis, the king-dauphin ; with her, the cyno- 
sure of every heart, the star of that fair company — Scotland's 
unrivalled Mary hanging upon his manly arm, and gazing up 
with those soft, dovelike eyes, fraught with unutterable soul, 
into her husband's face — into her husband's spirit. Brissac 
Avas there, and Joyeuse, and Nevers ; and Jarnac,the renowned 
for skill in fence, and Yielleville ; and the cardinal Lorraine, 
and all the glorious Guises and Montmorenci, soon to be famous 
as the slayer of his king, and every peer of France, and every 
peerless lady. 

Loud peeled the exulting symphonies ; loud sang the chosen 
minstrelsey — and as the gorgeous sunbeams rushed in a flood 
of tinted lustre through the rich many-colored panes of the tall 
windows, glancing on soft voluptuous forms and eyes that 
might outdazzle their own radiance, arrayed in all the pomp 
and pride of that magnificent and stately period — a more re- 
splendent scene could scarcely be imagined. That was a day 
of rich and graceful costumes, when men and warriors thought 
it no shame to be adorned in silks and velvets, with chains of 
goldsmith's work about their necks, and jewels in their ears, 
and on their hatbands, buttons, and buckles, and swordhilts ; 
and if such were the sumptuous attire of the sterner and more 
solid sex, what must have been the ornature of the court ladies, 
under the gentle sway of such a being as Diane de Poictiers, 
the lovely mistress of the monarch, and arbitress of the soft 
follies of the court ? 

The palace halls were decked with every fanciful variety, 



MARGUERITE DE VAUDREUIL. 147 

some in the pomp of blazoned tapestries, with banners rustling 
from the cornices above the jocund dancers, some filled with 
fresh green branches, wrought into silver arbors, sweet gar- 
lands perfuming the air, and the light half excluded or tempered 
into a mild and emerald radiance by the dense foliage of the 
rare exotics. Pages and ushers tripped it to and fro, clad in 
the royal liveries, embroidered with the cognizance of Henry, 
the fuigist salamander, bearing the choicest wines, the rarest 
cates, in every interval of the surrounding dance. It would be 
tedious to dwell longer on the scene ; to multiply more instan- 
ces of the strange mixture, which might be witnessed every- 
where, of artificial luxury with semibarbarous rudeness — to 
specify the graces of the company, the beauty of the demoi- 
selles and dames, the stately bearing of the warrior nobles, as 
they swept back and forth in the quaint mazes of some anti- 
quated measure, were a task to be undertaken only by some 
old chronicler, with style as curious and as quaint as the man- 
ners he portrays in living colors. Enough for us to catch a 
fleeting glimpse of the grand pageantry ! to sketch with a 
dashy pencil the groups which he would designate with abso- 
lute and accurate minuteness! 

But there was one among that gay assemblage, who must 
not be passed over with so slight a regard, since she attracted 
on that festive day, as much of wondering admiration for her 
unequalled beauties as she excited sympathy, and fear, in after- 
days, for her sad fortunes — but there was now no cloud upon 
her radiant, beauty, no dimness prophetic of approaching tears 
in her large laughing eyes, no touch of melancholy thought 
upon one glorious feature — Marguerite de Vaudreuil, the heir- 
ess of a ducal fortune, the heiress of charms so surpassing, that 
rank and fortune were forgotten by all who gazed upon her pure, 
high brow, her dazzling glances, her seductive smile, the per- 
fect symmetry of her whole shape and person ! Her hair, of 



148 THE FALSE LADYE. 

the darkest auburn shade, fell in a thousand ringlets, glittering 
out like threads of virgin gold when a stray sunbeam touched 
them, fell down her snowy neck over the shapely shoulders 
and so much of a soft, heaving bosom — veined by unnumbered 
azure channels, wherein the pure blood coursed so joyously — ■ 
as was displayed by the falling laces which decked her velvet 
boddice. Her eyes, so quick and dazzling was their light, 
almost defied description, possessing at one time the depth and 
brilliance of the black, melting into the softer languor of the 
blue — yet they were of the latter hue, and suited truly to the 
whole style and character of her voluptuous beauty. Her form, 
as has been noticed, was symmetry itself; and every move- 
ment, every step, was fraught with natural and unstudied 
grace. In sooth, she seemed almost too beautiful for mere 
mortality — and so thought many a one who gazed upon her, 
half drunk with that divine delirium which steeps the souls of 
men who dwell too steadfastly upon such wondrous charms, 
as she bounded through the labyrinth of the dance, lighter and 
springier than the world-famed gazelle, or rested from the ex- 
citing toil in panting abandonment upon some cushioned settle ! 
and many inquired of themselves, could it be possible that an 
exterior so divine should be the tenement of a harsh, worldly 
spirit — that a demeanor and an air so frank, so cordial, and 
so warm, should be but the deceptive veil that hid a selfish, 
cold, bad heart. Ay, many asked themselves that question on 
that day, but not one answered his own question candidly or 
truly — no! not one man! — for in her presence he had been 
more or less than mortal, who could pronounce his sentence 
unmoved by the attractions of her outward seeming. 

For Marguerite de Vaudreuil had been but three short months 
before affianced as the bride of the young Baron de La-Hire 
— the bravest and best of Henry's youthful nobles. It had 
been a love-treaty — no matter of shrewd bartering of hearts — ■ 



THE KINSMAN LOVERS. 149 

no cold and worldly convenance — but the outpouring, as it 
seemed, of two young spirits, each warm and worthy of the 
other! — and men had envied him, and ladies had held her 
more fortunate in her high conquest, than in her rank, her 
riches, or her beauties ; and the world had forgotten to calum- 
niate, or to sneer, in admiration of the young glorious pair, that 
seemed so fitly mated. Three little months had passed — three 
more, and they had been made one! — but in the interval 
Charles de La-Hire, obedient to his king's behest, had buckled 
on his sword, and led the followers of his house to the Italian 
wars. With him, scarcely less brave, and, as some thought, 
yet handsomer than he, forth rode upon his first campaign, Ar- 
mand de Laguy, his own orphaned cousin, bred like a brother 
on his father's hearth ; and, as Charles well believed, a brother 
in affection. Three little months had passed, and, in a tempo- 
rary truce, Armand de Laguy had returned alone, leading the 
relics of his cousin's force, and laden with the doleful tidings 
of that cousin's fall upon the field of honor. None else had 
seen him die, none else had pierced so deeply into the hostile 
ranks ; but Armand had rushed madly on to save his noble 
kinsman, and failing in the desperate attempt, had borne oft' his 
reward in many a perilous wound. Another month, and it was 
whispered far and near, that Marguerite had dried her tears 
already ; and that Armand de Laguy had, by his cousin's death, 
succeeded, not to lands and to lordships only, but to the win- 
ning of that dead cousin's bride. It had been whispered far 
and near, and now the whisper was proved true. For on this 
festive day young Armand, still pale from the effects of his ex- 
hausting wounds, and languid from loss of blood, appeared 
in public for the first time, not in the sable weeds of decent and 
accustomed wo, but in the gayest garb of a successful bride- 
groom — his pourpoint of rose-colored velvet strewn thickly 
with seed-pearl and broideries of silver, his hose of rich white 



150 THE FALSE LADYE. 

silk, all slashed and lined with cloth of silver, his injured arm 
suspended in a rare scarf of the lady's colors, and, above all, 
the air of quiet confident success with which he offered, and 
that lovely girl received, his intimate attentions, showed that 
for once, at least, the tongue of rumor had told truth. 

Therefore men gazed in wonder — and marvelled as they 
gazed, and half condemned ! — yet they who had been loudest 
in their censure when the first whisper reached their ears of 
so disloyal love, of so bold-fronted an inconstancy, now found 
themselves devising many an excuse within their secret hearts 
for this sad lapse of one so exquisitely fair. Henry himself 
had frowned, when Armand de Laguy led forth the fair be- 
trothed, radiant in festive garb and decked with joyous smiles 
— but the stern brow of the offended prince had smoothed itself 
into a softer aspect, and the rebuff which he had determined- — 
but a second's space before — to give to the untimely lovers, 
was frittered down into a jest before it left the lips of the re- 
pentant speaker. 

The day was well-nigh spent; — the evening banquet had 
been spread, and had been honored duly — and now the lamps 
were lit in hall, and corridor, and bower ; and merrier waxed 
the mirth, and faster wheeled the dance. The company were 
scattered to and fro, some wandering in the royal gardens, 
w r hich overspread at that day most of the Isle de Paris ; some 
played with cards or dice ; some drank and revelled in the 
halls ; some danced unwearied in the grand saloons ; some 
whispered love in ladies' ears in dark sequestered bowers — 
and of these last were Marguerite and Armand — a long alcove 
of thick green boughs, with orange-trees between, flowering in 
marble vases, and myrtles, and a thousand odorous trees, min- 
gling their perfumed shadows, led to a lonely bower, and there 
alone, in the dim starlight — alone indeed ! for they might now 
be deemed as one, sat the two lovers. One fair hand of the 



THE INTERRUPTION. 151 

frail lady was clasped in the bold suitor's right, while his left 
arm, unconscious of its wound, was twined about her slender 
waist ; her head reclined upon his shoulder, with all its rich 
redundancy of ringlets floating about his neck and bosom, and 
her eyes, languid and suffused, fondly turned up to meet his 
passionate glances. " And can it be," he said, in the thick 
broken tones that tell of vehement passion, " and can it be that 
you indeed love Armand ? I fear, I fear, sweet beauty, that I, 
like Charles, should be forgotten, were I, like Charles, re- 
moved ; for him thou didst love dearly, while on me never didst 
thou waste thought or word." 

" Him — never, Armand, never ! — by the bright stars above 
us — by the great gods that hear us — I never — never did love 
Charles de La-Hire — never did love man, save thee, my noble 
Armand. False girlish vanity and pique led me to toy with 
him at first; now to my sorrow I confess it — and when thou 
didst look coldly upon me, and seemedst to woo dark Adeline de 
Courcy, a woman's vengeance stirred up my very soul, and 
therefore to punish thee, whom only did I love, I well nigh 
yielded up myself to torture by wedding one whom I esteemed 
indeed and honored, but never thought of for one moment with 
affection ; wilt thou believe me, Armand ?" 

" Sweet angel, Marguerite !"' and he clasped her to his hot, 
heaving breast, and her white arms were flung about his neck, 
and their lips met in a long fiery kiss. 

Just in that point of time — in that soft melting moment — a 
heavy hand was laid quietly on Armand's shoulder — he started, 
as the fiend sprang up, revealed before the temper of Ithuriel's 
angel weapon — he started like a guilty thing from that forbid- 
den kiss. 

A tall form stood beside him, shrouded from head to heel in 
a dark riding-cloak of the Italian fashion ; but there was no hat 
on the stately head, nor any covering to the cold stern impas- 



152 THE FALSE LADYE. 

sive features. The high broad forehead as pale as sculptured 
marble, with the dark chestnut curls falling off parted evenly 
upon the crown — the full, fixed, steady eye, which he could 
no more meet than he could gaze unscathed on the meridian 
sun, the noble features, sharpened by want and suffering and 
wo — were all ! all those of his good cousin. 

For a moment's space the three stood there in silence — ■ 
Charles de La-Hire reaping rich vengeance from the uncon- 
querable consternation of the traitor ! Armand de Laguy bent 
almost to the earth with shame and conscious terror ! and Mar- 
guerite half dead with fear, and scarcely certain if indeed he 
who stood before her were the man in his living presence, 
whom she had vowed to love for ever ; or if it were but the 
visioned form of an indignant friend returned from the dark 
grave to thunderstrike the false disturbers of his eternal rest. 

" I am in time" — he said at length, in accents slow and un- 
faltering as his whole air was cold and tranquil — in time to 
break off this monstrous union ! — Thy perjuries have been in 
vain, weak man ; thy lies are open to the day. He whom thou 
didst betray to the Italian's dungeon — to the Italian's dagger 
— as thou didst then believe and hope — stands bodily before 
thee." 

A long heart-piercing shriek burst from the lips of Marguer- 
ite, as the dread import of his speech fell on her sharpened 
fears — the man whom she had loved — first loved ! — for all 
her previous words were false and fickle — stood at her side in 
all his power and glory — and she affianced to a liar, a base 
traitor — a foul murderer in his heart! — a scorn and byword 
to her own sex — an object of contempt and hatred to every 
noble spirit. ! 

But at that instant Armand de Laguy's pride awoke — for he 
was proud, and brave, and daring ! — and he gave back the lie, 
and hurled defiance in his accuser's teeth. 



THE RENUNCIATION. 153 

" Death to thy soul !" he cried ; " 'tis thou that liest, Charles ! 
Did I not see thee stretched on the bloody plain ? did I not 
sink beside thee, hewed down and trampled under foot, in stri- 
ving to preserve thee ? And when my vassals found me, wert 
thou not beside me — with thy face scarred, indeed, and man- 
gled beyond recognition — but with the surcoat and the arms 
upon the lifeless corpse, and the sword in the cold hand ? 'Tis 
thou that liest, man ! — 'tis thou that, for some base end, didst 
conceal thy life, and now wouldst charge thy felonies on me ; 
but 'twill not do, fair cousin! The king shall judge between 
us! Come, lady" — and he would have taken her by the 
hand, but she sprang back as though a viper would have stung 
her. 

" Back, traitor !" she exclaimed, in tones of the deepest loath- 
ing ; " I hate thee — spit on thee — defy thee ! Base have I 
been myself, and frail, and fickle ; but, as I live, Charles de 
La-Hire — but as I live now, and will die right shortly — I 
knew not of this villany ! I did believe thee dead, as that false 
murtherer swore — and — God be good to me! — I did betray 
thee dead ; and now have lost thee living ! But. for thee, Ar- 
mand de Laguy — dog! traitor! villain! knave! — dare not to 
look upon me any more ; dare not address me with one accent 
of thy serpent-tongue ! for Marguerite de Vaudreuil, fallen al- 
though she be, and lost for ever, is not so all abandoned as, 
knowing thee for what thou art, to bear with thee one second 
longer — no ! not though that second could redeem all the past, 
and wipe out all the sin — " 

" Fine words, fine words, fair mistress ! but on with me thou 
shalt !" — and he stretched out his arm to seize her, when, with 
a perfect majesty, Charles de La-Hire stepped in and grasped 
him by the wrist, and held him for a moment there, gazing into 
his eye as though he would have read his soul ; then threw 
him off with a force that made him stagger back ten paces be- 

7* 



154 THE FALSE LADYE. 

fore he could regain his footing. Then, then, with all the fury 
of the fiend depicted on his working lineaments, Armand un- 
sheathed his rapier and made a full longe, bounding forward as 
he did so, right at his cousin's heart ; but he was foiled again 
— for with a single, and, as it seemed, slight motion of the 
sheathed broadsword which he held under his cloak, Charles 
de La-Hire struck up the weapon, and sent it whirling through 
the air to twenty paces' distance. 

Just then there came a shout, " The king ! the king !" — and, 
with the words, a glare of many torches, and with his courtiers 
and his guard about him, the monarch stood forth in offended 
majesty. 

" Ha ! what means this insolent broil ? What men be these 
who dare draw swords within the palace precincts ?" 

"My sword is sheathed, sire," answered De La-Hire, kneel- 
ing before the king, and laying the good weapon at his feet — 
"nor has been ever drawn, save at your highness' bidding, 
against your highness' foes. But I beseech you, sire, as you 
love honesty and honor, and hate deceit and treason, grant me 
your royal license to prove Armand de Laguy recreant, base, 
traitorous, a liar, and a felon, and a murtherer, hand to hand, in 
the presence of the ladies of your court, according to the law 
of arms and honor !" 

" Something of this we have heard already," replied the king, 
" Baron de La-Hire. But say out, now : of what accuse you 
Armand de Laguy 1 Show but good cause, and thy request is 
granted ; for I have not forgot your good deeds in my cause 
against our rebel Savoyards and our Italian foemen. Of what 
accuse you Armand de Laguy ?" 

" That he betrayed me, wounded, into the hands of the duke 
of Parma ; that he dealt with Italian bravos to compass my 
assassination ; that by foul lies and treacherous devices he has 
trained from me my affianced bride ; and last, not least, deprived 



the king's decree. 155 

her of fair name and honor. This will I prove upon his body, 
so help me God and my good sword !" 

" Stand forth and answer to his charge, De Laguy — speak 
out ! what sayest thou ?" 

"I say," answered Armand, boldly — "I say that he lies! 
that he did feign his own death, for some evil ends, and did de- 
ceive me, who would have died to succor him ; that I, believing 
him dead, have won from him the love of this fair lady, I admit 
— but I assert that I did win it fairly, and of good right; and, 
for the rest, I say he lies doubly when he asserts that she has 
lost fair name or honor ! This is my answer, sire ; and I be- 
seech you grant his prayer, and let us prove our words, as gen- 
tlemen of France, and soldiers, forthwith, by singular battle !" 

" Amen !" replied the king. " The third day hence, at noon, 
in the tiltyard, before our court, we do adjudge the combat — 
and this fair lady be the prize of the victor ! — " 

" No, sire !" interposed Charles de La-Hire, again kneeling; 
but before he had the time to add a second word, Marguerite 
de Vaudreuil, who had stood all the while with her hands 
clasped, and her eyes riveted upon the ground, sprang forth 
with a great cry. 

"No! no! for God's sake! no! no! sire — great king — 
good gentleman — brave knight! doom me not to a fate so 
dreadful. Charles de La-Hire is all that man can be of good, 
or great, or noble ; but I betrayed him, whom I deemed dead, 
and he can never trust me living ! Moreover, if he would take 
me to his arms, base as I am and most false-hearted, he should 
not ; for God forbid that my dishonor should blight his noble 
fame. As for the slave De Laguy — the traitor and low liar — 
doom me, great monarch, to the convent or the block, but curse 
me not with such contamination ! for, by the heavens I swear, 
and by the God that rules them, that I will die by my own 
hand before I wed that serpent !" 



156 THE FALSE LADYE. 

" Be it so, fair one," answered the king, very coldly, " be it 
so ; we permit thy choice — a convent or the victor's bridal bed 
shall be thy doom, at thine own option ! Meanwhile, your 
swords, sirs : until the hour of battle ye are both under our ar- 
rest. Jarnac, be thou godfather to Charles de La-Hire ; Nevers, 
do thou like office for De Laguy." 

" By God, not 1, sire !" answered the proud duke. " I hold 
this man's offence so rank, his guilt so palpable, that, on my 
conscience, I think your royal hangman were his best god- 
father !" 

" Nevertheless, De Nevers, it shall be as I say ! This bold 
protest of thine is all-sufficient for thine honor ; and it is but a 
form ! No words, duke ! it must be as I have said ! Joyeuse, 
escort this lady to thy duchess ; pray her accept of her as the 
king's guest, until this matter be decided. The third day hence 
at noon, on foot, with sword and dagger, with no arms of de- 
fence or vantage ; the principals to fight alone, until one die or 
yield — and so God shield the right!" 



CHAPTER II. 



It was a clear, bright day in the early autumn, when the 
royal tiltyard, on the Isle de Paris, was prepared for a deadly 
conflict. The tilt-yard was a regular, oblong space, enclosed 
with stout, squared palisades, and galleries for the accommoda- 
tion of spectators, immediately in the vicinity of the royal resi- 
dence of the Tournelles, a splendid Gothic structure, adorned 
with all the rare and fanciful devices of that rich style of archi- 
tecture. At a short distance thence rose the tall, gray towers 
of Notre Dame, the bells of which were tolling minutely the 
dirge for a passing soul. 

From one of the windows of the palace a gallery had been 



THE ROYAL TILTYARD. 157 

constructed, hung with rich crimson tapestry, leading to a long 
range of seats, cushioned and decked with arras, and guarded 
by a strong party of gentlemen in the royal livery, with parti- 
sans in their hands, and sword and dagger at the belt. At 
either end of the list was a tent pitched : that at the right of 
the royal gallery a plain marquee of canvass, of small size, 
which had apparently seen much service, and been used in 
real warfare. The curtain which formed the door of this was 
lowered, so that no part of the interior could be seen from with- 
out ; but a parti-colored pennon was pitched into the ground 
beside it, and a shield suspended from the palisades, embla- 
zoned with bearings, which all men knew to be those of Charles 
Baron de La-Hire, a renowned soldier in the late Italian wars, 
and the challenger in the present conflict. The pavilion at the 
left, or lower end, was of a widely-different kind — of the very 
largest sort then in use, completely framed of crimson cloth, 
lined with- white silk, festooned and fringed with gold, and all 
the curtains looped up to display a range of massive tables, cov- 
ered with snow-white damask, and loaded with two hundred 
covers of pure silver ! Vases of flowers and flasks of crystal 
were intermixed upon the board with tankards, flagons, and 
cups and urns of gold, embossed and jewelled ; and behind ev- 
ery seat a page was placed, clad in the colors of the counts de 
Laguy. A silken curtain concealed the entrance of an inner 
tent, wherein the count awaited the signal that should call him 
to the lists. 

Strange and indecent as such an accompaniment would be 
deemed now-a-days to a solemn, mortal conflict, it was then 
deemed neither singular nor monstrous ; and in this gay pavil- 
ion Armand de Laguy, the challenged in the coming duel, had 
summoned all the nobles of the court to feast with him, after he 
should have slain — so confident was he of victory — his cousin 
and accuser, Charles Baron de La-Hire. 



158 THE FALSE LADYE. 

The entrances of the tiltyard were guarded by a detachment 
of the king's sergeants, sheathed cap-a-pie in steel, with shoul- 
dered arquebuses and matches ready lighted. The lists were 
strewn with sawdust, and hung completely with black serge, 
save where the royal gallery afforded a strange contrast by its 
rich decorations to the ghastly draperies of the battle-ground. 
One other object only remains to be noticed : it was a huge 
block of black oak, dinted in many places as if by the edge of 
a sharp weapon, and stained with plashes of dark gore. Beside 
this frightful emblem stood a tall, muscular, gray-headed man, 
dressed in a leathern frock and apron, stained like the block 
with many a gout of blood, bare-headed and bare-armed, lean- 
ing upon a huge two-handed axe, with a blade of three feet in 
breadth. A little way aloof from these was placed a chair, 
wherein a monk was seated — a very aged man, with a bald 
head and beard as white as snow — telling his beads in silence 
until his ministry should be required. 

The space around the lists and all the seats were crowded 
well-nigh to suffocation by thousands of anxious and attentive 
spectators ; and many an eye was turned to watch the royal 
seats, which were yet vacant, but which it was well known 
would be occupied before the trumpet should sound for the on- 
set. The sun was now nearly at the meridian, and the expec- 
tation of the crowd was at its height, when the passing-bell 
ceased ringing, and was immediately succeeded by the accus- 
tomed peal, announcing the hour of high noon. Within a mo- 
ment or two, a bustle was observed among the gentlemen-pen- 
sioners ; then a page or two entered the royal seats, and, after 
looking about them for a moment, again retired. Another pause 
of profound expectation, and then a long, loud blast of trumpets 
followed from the interior of the royal residence ; nearer it rang 
and nearer, till the loud symphonies filled every ear and thrilled 
to the core of every heart : and then the king — the dignified 



THE SWORDSMEN'S PRIZE. 159 

and noble Henry — entered with all his glittering court, princes, 
and dukes, and peers, and ladies of high birth and matchless 
beauty, and took their seats amid the thundering acclamations 
of the people, to witness the dread scene that was about to 
follow, of wounds, and blood, and butchery ! 

All were arrayed in the most gorgeous splendor — all except 
one, a girl of charms unrivalled (although she seemed plunged 
in the deepest agony of grief) by the seductive beauties of the 
gayest. Her bright, redundant auburn hair was all dishevelled ; 
her long, dark eyelashes were pencilled in distinct relief against 
the marble pallor of her colorless cheeks ; her rich and rounded 
form was veiled, but not concealed, by a dress of the coarsest 
serge, black as the robes of night, and thereby contrasting more 
the exquisite fairness of her complexion. On her all eye's 
were fixed — some with disgust, some with contempt, others 
with pity, sympathy, and even admiration. That girl was Mar- 
guerite de Vaudreuil — betrothed to either combatant; the be- 
trayed herself, and the betrayer ; rejected by the man whose 
memory, when she believed him dead, she had herself desert- 
ed ; rejecting, in her turn, and absolutely loathing him whose 
falsehood had betrayed her into the commission of a yet deeper 
treason — Marguerite de Vaudreuil, lately the admired of all 
beholders, now the prize of two kindred swordsmen, without 
an option save that between the bed of a man she hated and 
the lifelong seclusion of the convent. 

The king was seated ; the trumpets flourished once again, 
and at the signal the curtain was withdrawn from the tent-door 
of the challenger, and Charles de La-Hire stepped calmly out 
on the arena, followed by his god-father, De Jarnac, bearing 
two double-edged swords of great length and weight, and two 
broad-bladed poniards. Charles de La-Hire was very pale 
and sallow, as if from ill health or from long confinement, but 
his step was firm and elastic, and his air perfectly unmoved 



160 THE FALSE LADYE. 

and tranquil. A slight flush rose to his pale cheek as he was 
greeted by an enthusiastic cheer from the people, to whom his 
fame in the wars of Italy had much endeared him ; but the 
flush was transient, and in a moment he was as pale and cold 
as before the shout which hailed his entrance. He was clad 
very plainly in a dark, morone-colored pourpoint, with vest, 
trunk-hose, and nether socks of black-silk netting, displaying to 
admiration the outlines of his lithe and sinewy frame. De Jar- 
nac, his godfather, on the contrary, was very foppishly attired 
with an abundance of fluttering tags, and ruffles of rich lace, 
and feathers in his velvet cap. 

These two had scarcely stood a moment in the lists, before, 
from the opposite pavilion, De Laguy and the duke de Nevers 
issued, the latter bearing, like De Jarnac, a pair of swords and 
daggers. It was observed, however, that the weapons of De 
Laguy were narrow, three-cornered rapier-blades and Italian 
stilettoes ; and it was well understood that on the choice of the 
weapons depended much the result of the encounter — De La- 
guy being renowned above any gentleman in the French court 
for his skill in the science of defence, as practised by the Ital- 
ian masters ; while his antagonist was known to excel in 
strength and skill in the management of all downright soldierly 
weapons, in coolness, in decision, presence of mind, and calm, 
self-sustained valor, rather than in sleight and dexterity. Ar- 
mand de Laguy was dressed sumptuously — in the same garb, 
indeed, which he had worn at the festival whereon the strife 
arose which now was on the point of being terminated, and for 
ever ! 

A few moments were spent in deliberation between the god- 
fathers of the combatants, and then it was proclaimed by De 
Jarnac that " the wind and sun having been equally divided 
between the two swordsmen, their places were assigned, and 
that it remained only to decide upon the choice of the weapons : 



THE DEADLY COMBAT. 161 

that the choice should be regulated by a throw of the dice, and 
that with the weapons so chosen they should fight until one or 
other should be hors de combat ; but that in case that either 
weapon should be bent or broken, the seconds should cry, 
' Hold !' and recourse be had to the other swords ; the use of 
the poniard to be optional, as it was to be used only for parry- 
ing, and not for striking ; that either combatant striking a blow 
or thrusting after the utterance of the word ' hold,' or using the 
dagger to inflict a wound, should be dragged to the block and 
die the death of a felon !" 

This proclamation made, dice were produced, and De Nevers 
winning the throw for Armand, the rapiers and stilettoes which 
he had selected were produced, examined carefully, and meas- 
ured, and delivered to the kindred foemen. 

It was a stern and fearful sight ; for there was no bravery 
nor show in their attire, nor aught chivalrous in the way of 
battle. They had thrown off their coats and hats, and remained 
in their shirt-sleeves and under-garments only, with napkins 
bound about their brows, and their eyes fixed each on the oth- 
er's with intense and terrible malignity. 

The signal was now given, and the blades were crossed, 
and on the instant it was seen how fearful was the advantage 
which De Laguy had gained by the choice of weapons ; for it 
was with the utmost difficulty that Charles de La-Hire avoided 
the incessant longes of his enemy, who, springing to and fro, 
stamping, and writhing his body in every direction, never ceased 
for a moment with every trick of feint, and pass, and flourish, 
to thrust at limb, face, and body, easily parrying himself with 
the poniard, which he held in his left hand, the less skilful 
assaults of his enemy. Within five minutes the blood had been 
drawn in as many different places, though the wounds were 
but superficial, from the sword-arm, the face, and thigh of De 
La-Hire, while he had not as yet pricked ever so lightly his 



162 THE FALSE LADYE. 

formidable enemy. His quick eye, however, and firm, active 
hand, stood him in stead, and he contrived in every instance to 
turn the thrusts of Armand so far at least aside as to render 
them innocuous to life. As his blood, however, ebbed away, 
and as he knew that he must soon become weak from the loss 
of it, De Jarnac evidently grew uneasy, and many bets w T ere 
offered that Armand would kill him without receiving so much 
as a scratch himself. 

And now Charles saw his peril, and determined on a fresh 
line of action. Flinging away his dagger, he altered his posi- 
tion rapidly, so as to bring his left hand toward De Laguy, and 
made a motion with it as if to grasp his sword-hilt. He was 
immediately rewarded by a longe, which drove clear through 
his left arm close to the elbow-joint, but just above it. De Jar- 
nac turned on the instant deadly pale, for he thought all was 
over ; but he erred widely, for De La-Hire had calculated well 
his action and his time, and that which threatened to destroy 
him proved, as he meant it, his salvation : for as quick as light, 
when he felt the wound, he dropped his own rapier, and grasp- 
ing Armand's guard with his right hand, he snapped the blade 
short off in his own mangled flesh, and bounded five feet back- 
ward, with the broken fragment still sticking in his arm. 

" Hold !" shouted each godfather on the instant ; and at the 
same time De La-Hire exclaimed, " Give us the other swords, 
give us the other swords, De Jarnac !" 

The exchange was made in a moment : the stilettoes and the 
broken weapons were gathered up, and the heavy horse-swords 
given to the combatants, who again faced each other with equal 
resolution, though now with altered fortunes. " Now, De La- 
Hire," exclaimed De Jarnac, as he put the well-poised blade 
into his friend's hand, " you managed that right gallantly and 
well : now fight the quick fight, ere you shall faint from pain 
and bleedingf !" 



THE VICTORY THE CONFESSION. 1G3 

And it was instantly apparent that such was indeed his in- 
tention. His eye lightened, and he looked like an eagle about 
to pounce upon his foe, as he drew up his form to its utmost 
height, and whirled the long new blade about his head as 
though it had been but a feather. Far less sublime and stri- 
king was the attitude and swordmanship of De Laguy, though 
he too fought gallantly and well. But at the fifth pass, feinting 
at his head, Charles fetched a long and sweeping blow at his 
right leg, and, striking him below the ham, divided all the ten- 
dons with the back of the double-edged blade ; then, springing 
in before he fell, plunged his sword into his body, that the hilt 
knocked heavily at his breast-bone, and the point came out 
glittering between his shoulders ! The blood flashed out from 
the deep wound, from nose, and ears, and mouth, as he fell 
prostrate ; and Charles stood over him, leaning on his avenging 
weapon, and gazing sadly into his stiffening features. " Fetch 
him a priest," exclaimed De Nevers, " for by my halydom he 
will not live ten minutes !" 

" If he live five," cried the king, rising from his seat, " if he 
live five, he will live long enough to die upon the block ; for 
he lies there a felon and convicted traitor, and by my soul he 
shall die a felon's doom ! But bring him a priest quickly." 

The old monk ran across the lists, and raised the head of the 
dying man, and held the crucifix aloft before his glazing eyes, 
and called upon him to repent and to confess, as he would have 
salvation. 

Faint and half-choked with blood, he faltered forth the words 
— "I do — I do confess guilty — oh! doubly guilty! — Pardon, 
O God! — Charles! Marguerite!" — and as the words died 
on his quivering lips, he sank down, fainting with the excess 
of agony. 

"Ho, there! — guards, headsman!" shouted Henry; -'off 
with him — off with the villain to the block, before he die an 



164 THE FALSE LADYE. 

honorable death by the sword of as good a knight as ever fought 
for glory !" 

" Then De La-Hire knelt down beside the dying man, and 
took his hand in his own and raised it tenderly, while a faint 
gleam of consciousness kindled the pallid features — " May God 
as freely pardon thee as I do, O my cousin !" Then turning to 
the king — 

" You have admitted, sire, that I have served you faith- 
fully and well. Never yet have I sought reward at your 
hand : let this now be my guerdon. Much have I suffered : 
even thus let me not feel that my king has increased my suf- 
ferings by consigning one of my blood to the headsman's blow. 
Pardon him, sire, as I do, who have the most cause of offence ; 
pardon him, gracious king, as we will hope that a King higher 
yet shall pardon him and us, who be all sinners in the sight of 
his all-seeing eye !" 

" Be it so," answered Henry ; " it never shall be said of me 
that a French king refused his bravest soldier's first claim upon 
his justice ! Bear him to his pavilion." 

And they did bear him to his pavilion, decked as it was for 
revelry and feasting ; and they laid him there, ghastly, and 
gashed, and gory, upon the festive board, and his blood streamed 
among the choice wines, and the scent of death chilled the rich 
fragrance of the flowers ! An hour, and he was dead who had 
invited others to triumph over his cousin's slaughter ; an hour, 
and the court-lackeys shamefully spoiled and plundered the 
repast which had been spread for nobles ! 

"And now," continued Henry, taking the hand of Marguerite, 
"here is the victor's prize! Wilt have him, Marguerite? — 
'fore Heaven, but he has won thee nobly ! Wilt have her, De 
La-Hire? — methinks her tears and beauty may yet atone for 
fickleness produced by treasons such as his who now shall 
never more betray, nor lie, nor sin, for ever ! — " 



THE AMBIGUOUS ANSWER. 165 

" Sire," replied De La-Hire, very firmly, " I pardon her ; I 
love her yet! — but I wed not dishonor !" 

" He is right," said the pale girl, " he is right, ever right and 
noble ; for what have such as I to do with wedlock ? Fare thee 
well, Charles — dear, honored Charles! The mists of this 
world are clearing away from mine eyes, and I see now that I 
loved thee best — thee only ! Fare thee well, noble one ! for- 
get the wretch who has so deeply wronged thee — forget me, 
and be happy. For me, I shall right soon be free !" 

" Not so, not so," replied King Henry, misunderstanding her 
meaning ; " not so, for I have sworn it, and though I may pity 
thee, I may not be forsworn. To-morrow thou must to a con- 
vent, there to abide for ever !" 

"And that will not be long," answered the girl, a gleam of 
her old pride and impetuosity lighting up her fair features. 

"By Heaven, I say for ever!" cried Henry, stamping his 
foot on the ground angrily. 

"And I reply, not long!" 



CHAPTER III 



A cold and dark northeaster, had swept together a host of 
straggling vapors and thin lowering clouds over the French 
metropolis — the course of the Seine might be traced easily 
among the grotesque roofs and Gothic towers which at that day 
adorned its banks, by the gray ghostly mist which seethed up 
from its sluggish waters — a small fine rain was falling noise- 
lessly, and almost imperceptibly, by its own weight as it were, 
from the surcharged and watery atmosphere — the air was 
keenly cold and piercing, although the seasons had not crept 
far as yet beyond the confines of the summer. The trees, for 



166 THE FALSE LADYE.. 

there were many in the streets of Paris, and still more in the 
fauxbourgs and gardens of the haute noblesse, were thickly 
covered with white rime, as were the manes and frontlets of 
the horses, the clothes, and hair, and eyebrows of the human 
beings who ventured forth in spite of the inclement weather. 
A sadder and more gloomy scene can scarcely be conceived 
than is presented by the streets of a large city in such a time 
as that I have attempted to describe. But this peculier sadness 
was, on the day of which I write, augmented and exaggerated 
by the continual tolling of the great bell of St. Germains Aux- 
errois, replying to the iron din which arose from the gray tow- 
ers of N6tre Dame. From an early hour of the day the people 
had been congregating in the streets and about the bridges lead- 
ing to the precincts of the royal palace, the Chateau des Tour- 
nelles, which then stood — long since obliterated almost from 
the memory of men — upon the Isle de Paris, the greater part 
of which was covered then with the courts, and terraces, and 
gardens of that princely pile. 

Strong bodies of the household troops were posted here and 
there about the avenues and gates of the royal demesne, and 
several large detachments of the archers of the prevot's guard 
— still called so from the arms which they had long since 
ceased to carry — might be seen everywhere on duty. Yet 
there were no symptoms of an emeute among the populace, nor 
any signs of angry feeling or excitement in the features of the 
loitering crowd, which was increasing every moment as the 
day waxed toward noon. Some feeling certainly there was — 
some dark and earnest interest, as might be judged from the 
knit brows, clinched hands, and anxious whispers which every- 
where attended the exchange of thought throughout the con- 
course — but it was by no means of an alarming or an angry 
character. Grief, wonder, expectation, and a sort of half- 
doubtful pity, as far as might be gathered from the words of the 



THE CHATEAU DES TOURNELLES. 167 

passing speakers, Avere the more prominent ingredients of the 
common feeling, which had called out so large a portion of the 
city's population on a day so unsuited to any spectacle of inte- 
rest. For several hours this mob, increasing as it has been 
described from hour to hour, varied but little in its character, 
save that as the day wore it became more and more respecta- 
ble in the appearance of its members. At first it had been 
composed almost without exception of artisans and shop-boys, 
and mechanics of the lowest order, with not a few of the cheats, 
bravoes, pickpockets, and similar ruffians, who then as now 
formed a fraternity of no mean size in the Parisian world. As 
the morning advanced, however, many of the burghers of the 
city, and respectable craftsmen, might be seen among the 
crowd ; and a little later many of the secondary gentry and 
petite noblesse, with well-dressed women and even children, 
all showing the same symptoms of sad yet eager expectation. 
Now, when it lacked but a few minutes of noon, long trains of 
courtiers with their retinues and armed attendants, many ahead 
of a renowned and ancient house, many a warrior famous for 
valor and for conduct might be seen threading the mazes of the 
crowded thoroughfares toward the royal palace. 

A double ceremony of singular and solemn nature was soon 
to be enacted there — the interment of a noble soldier, slain 
lately in an unjust quarrel, and the investiture of an unwilling 
woman with the robes of a holy sisterhood preparatory to her 
lifelong interment in that sepulchre of the living body — sepul- 
chre of the pining soul — the convent cloisters. Armand de 
Laguy ! — Marguerite de Vaudreuil ! 

Many circumstances had united in this matter to call forth 
much excitement, much grave interest in the minds of all who 
had heard tell of it! — the singular and wild romance of the 
story, the furious and cruel combat which had resulted from it 
— and last not least, the violent, and, as it was generally con- 



168 THE FALSE LADYE. 

sidered, unnatural resentment of the king toward the guilty vic- 
tim who survived the ruin she had wrought. 

The story was, in truth, then, but little understood. A thou- 
sand rumors were abroad, and of course no one accurately true ; 
yet in each there was a share of truth, and the amount of the 
whole was perhaps less wide of the mark than is usual in mat- 
ters of the kind. And thus they ran : Marguerite de Vaudreuil 
had been betrothed to the youngest of France's famous warriors, 
Charles de La-Hire, who after a time fell — as it was related 
by his young friend and kinsman Armand de Laguy — covered 
with wounds and honor. The body had been found outstretched 
beneath the survivor, who, himself desperately hurt, had alone 
witnessed and in vain endeavored to prevent his cousin's slaugh- 
ter. The face of Charles de La-Hire, as all men deemed the 
corpse to be, was mangled and defaced so frightfully as to ren- 
der recognition by the features utterly hopeless ; yet, from the 
emblazoned surcoat which it bore, the well-known armor on 
the limbs, the signet-ring upon the finger, and the accustomed 
sword clinched in the dead right hand, none doubted the iden- 
tity of the body, or questioned the truth of Armand's story. 

Armand de Laguy, succeeding by his cousin's death to all 
his lands and lordships, returned to the metropolis, and mixed 
in the gayeties of that gay period, when all the court of France 
was revelling in the celebration of the union of the dauphin 
with the lovely Mary Stuart, in after-days the hapless queen 
of Scotland. 

He wore no decent, and accustomed garb of mourning. He 
suffered no interval, however brief — due to decorum at least, 
if not to kindly feeling — to elapse, before it was announced 
that Marguerite de Vaudreuil, the dead man's late betrothed, 
was instantly to wed his living cousin ! Her wondrous beauty, 
her all-seductive manners, her extreme youth, had in vain plead- 
ed against the general censure of the court — the world. Men 



A RECAPITULATION. 169 

had frowned on her for a while, and women sneered and slan- 
dered ; but after a little while, as the novelty of the story wore 
away, the indignation against her inconstancy ceased, and she 
was once again installed the leader of the court's unwedded 
beauties. 

Suddenly, on the very eve of her intended nuptials, Charles 
de La-Hire returned ! — ransomed, as it turned out, by Brissac, 
from the Italian dungeons of the prince of Parma, and making 
fearful charges of treason and intended murder against Armand 
de Laguy. The king had commanded that the truth should be 
proved by a solemn combat ; had sworn to execute upon the 
felon's block whichever of the two should yield or confess 
falsehood; had sworn that the inconstant Marguerite — who, 
on the return of De La-Hire, had returned instantly to her for- 
mer feelings, asserting her perfect confidence in the truth of 
Charles, the treachery of Armand — should either wed the vic- 
tor, or live and die the inmate of the most rigorous convent in 
his realm. 

The battle had been fought yesterday! Armand de Laguy 
fell, mortally wounded by his wronged cousin's hand, and with 
his latest breath declared his treasons, and implored pardon 
from his king, his kinsman, and his God — happy to perish by 
a brave man's sword, not by a headman's axe. And Marguer- 
ite, the victor's prize — rejected by the man she had betrayed 
— herself refusing, even if he were willing, to wed with him 
whom she could but dishonor — had now no option save death 
or the detested cloister. 

And now men pitied — women wept — all frowned, and won- 
dered, and kept silence. That a young, vain, capricious beauty 
— the pet and spoiled child from her very cradle of a gay and 
luxurious court, worshipped for her charms like a second Aph- 
rodite, intoxicated with the love of admiration — that such a 

8 



170 THE FALSE LADYE. 

one should be inconstant, fickle — should swerve from her fealty 
to the dead — a questionable fealty always — and be won to a 
rash second love by the falsehood and treasons of a man young, 
and brave, and handsome — falsehood which had deceived wise 
men — that such should be the course of events, men said, was 
neither strange nor monstrous ! It was a fault, a lapse, of 
which she had been guilty — which might indeed make her 
future faith suspected, which would surely justify Charles de 
La-Hire in casting back her proffered hand — but which at the 
worst was venial, and deserving no such doom as the soul- 
chilling cloister. 

She had, they said, in no respect participated in the guilt or 
shared the treacheries of Armand. On the contrary, she, the 
victim of his fraud, had been the first to denounce, to spit at, to 
defy him. 

Moreover, it was understood that, although De La-Hire had 
refused her hand, several of equal and even higher birth than 
he had offered to redeem her from the cloister by taking her to 
wife of their free choice. Jarnac had claimed the beauty, and 
it was whispered that the duke de Nevers had sued to Henry 
vainly for the fair hand of the unwilling novice. 

But the king was relentless. " Either the wife of De La- 
Hire, or the bride of God in the cloister !" was his unvarying 
reply. No further answer would he give — no disclosure of 
his motives would he make, even to his wisest councillors. 
Some, indeed, augured that the good monarch's anger was but 
feigned, and that, deeming her sufficiently punished already, 
he was desirous still of forcing her to be the bride of him to 
whom she had been destined, and whom she still, despite her 
brief inconstancy, unquestionably worshipped in her heart ; for 
all men still supposed that at the last Charles would forgive 
the hapless girl, and so relieve her from the living tomb that 
even now seemed yawning to enclose her. But others — and 



THE FUNERAL TRAIN. 171 

they were those who understood the best mood of France's 
second Henry — vowed that the wrath was real ; and felt that, 
though no man could fathom the cause of his stern ire, he never 
would forgive the guilty girl, whose frailty, as he swore, had 
caused such strife and bloodshed. 

But now it was high noon ; and forth filed from the palace- 
gates a long and glittering train — Henry and all his court, with 
all the rank and beauty of the realm, knights, nobles, peers and 
princes, damsels and dames — the pride of France and Europe. 
But at the monarch's right walked one, clad in no gay attire — 
pale, languid, wounded, and warworn — Charles de La-Hire, 
the victor. A sad, deep gloom o'ercast his large dark eye, and 
threw a shadow over his massy forehead. His lip had forgot 
to smile, his glance to lighten ; yet was there no remorse, no 
doubt, no wavering in his calm, noble features — only fixed, set- 
tled sorrow. His long and waving hair of the darkest chest- 
nut, evenly parted on his crown, fell down on either cheek, and 
flowed over the broad, plain collar of his shirt, which, decked 
with no embroidery-lace, was folded back over the cape of a 
plain black pourpoint, made of fine cloth indeed, but neither 
laced nor passemented, nor even slashed with velvet ; a broad 
scarf of black taffeta supported his weapon — a heavy, double- 
edged, straight broadsword — and served at the same time to 
support his left arm, the sleeve of which hung open, tied in 
with points of riband ; his trunk-hose and nether stocks of plain 
black silk, black velvet shoes, and a slouched hat, with neither 
feather nor cockade, completed the suit of melancholy mourning 
which he wore. 

In the midst of the train was a yet sadder sight — Marguer- 
ite de Vaudreuil, robed in the snow-white vestments of a nov- 
ice, with all her glorious ringlets flowing in loose redundance 
over her shoulders and her bosom, soon to be cut close by the 
fatal scissors — pale as the monumental stone, and only not as 



172 THE FALSE LADYE. 

rigid. A hard-featured, gray-headed monk supported her on 
either hand ; and a long train of priests swept after, with cru- 
cifix, and rosary, and censer. 

Scarcely had this strange procession issued from the great 
gates of Les Tournelles — the death-bells tolling still from ev- 
ery tower and steeple — before another train, gloomier yet and 
sadder, filed out from the gate of the royal tiltyard, at the far- 
ther end of which stood a superb pavilion. Sixteen black 
Benedictine monks led the array, chanting the mournful Mis- 
erere. Next behind these (strange contrast!) strode on the 
grim, gaunt form, clad in his blood-stained tabard, and bearing 
full displayed his broad, two-handed axe — fell emblem of his 
odious calling — the public executioner of Paris. Immediately 
in the rear of this dark functionary, not borne by his bold cap- 
tains, nor followed by his gallant vassals with arms reversed 
and signs of martial sorrow, but ignominiously supported by 
the grim-visaged ministers of the law, came on the bier of 
Armand, the last count de Laguy. 

Stretched in a coffin of the rudest material and construction, 
with his pale visage bare, displaying still in its distorted lines 
and sharpened features the agonies of mind and body which 
had preceded his untimely dissolution, the bad but haughty 
noble was borne to his long home in the graveyard of Notre 
Dame. His sword, broken in twain, was laid across his breast, 
his spurs had been hacked from his heels by the base cleaver 
of the scullion, and his reversed escutcheon was hung above 
his head. 

Narrowly saved by his wronged kinsman's intercession from 
dying by the headman's weapon ere yet his mortal wounds 
should have let out his spirit, he was yet destined to the shame 
of a dishonored sepulchre. Such was the king's decree — 
alas ! inexorable. 

The funeral-train proceeded ; the king and his court fol- 



the felon's grave. 173 

lowed. They reached the graveyard, hard beneath those 
superb gray towers ! — they reached the grave, in a remote and 
gloomy corner, where, in unconsecrated earth, reposed the ex- 
ecuted felon. The priests attended not the corpse beyond the 
precincts of that unholy spot ; their solemn chant died mourn- 
fully away ; no rites were done, no prayers were said above 
the senseless clay, but in silence was it lowered into the ready 
pit — silence disturbed only by the deep, hollow sound of the 
clods that fell fast and heavy on the breast of the guilty noble ! 
For many a day a headstone might be seen — not raised by the 
kind hands of sorrowing friends, nor watered by the tears of 
kinsmen, but planted there to tell of his disgraceful doom — 
amid the nameless graves of the self-slain, and the recorded 
resting-places of well-known thieves and felons. It was of 
dark-gray freestone, and it bore these brief words — brief words, 
but in that situation speaking the voice of volumes : — 

" Ci git Armand, 
Le dernier Comte de Laguy." 

Three forms stood by the grave — stood till the last clod had 
been heaped upon its kindred clay, and the dark headstone 
planted : Henry the king ; and Charles the baron de La-Hire ; 
and Marguerite de Vaudreuil. 

And as the last clod was flattened down upon the dead — 
after the stone was fixed — De La-Hire crossed the grave to 
the despairing girl, where she had stood gazing with a fixed, 
rayless eye on the sad ceremony, and took her by the hand, 
and spoke so loud that all might hear his words, while Henry 
looked on calmly, but not without an air of wondering excite- 
ment : — 

" Not that I did not love thee," he said, " Marguerite ! Not 
that I did not pardon thee thy brief inconstancy, caused as it 
was by evil arts of which we will say nothing now — since he 



174 THE FALSE LADYE. 

who plotted them hath suffered even above his merits, and is, 
we trust, now pardoned ! Not for these causes, nor for any of 
them, have I declined thine hand thus far ; but that the king 
commanded, judging it in his wisdom best for both of us. Now 
Armand is gone hence ; and let all doubt and sorrow go hence 
with him ! Let all your tears, all my suspicions, be buried in 
his grave for ever! I take your hand, dear Marguerite — I 
take you as mine honored and loved bride — I claim you mine 
for ever !" 

Thus far the girl had listened to him, not blushingly, nor 
with a melting eye, nor with any sign of renewed hope or re- 
kindled happiness in her pale features — but with cold, resolute 
attention. But now she put away his hand very steadily, and 
spoke with a firm, unfaltering voice. 

" Be not so weak !" she said ; " be not so weak, Charles de 
La-Hire — nor fancy me so vain ! The weight and wisdom of 
years have passed above my head since yester morning : then 
was I a vain, thoughtless girl ; now am I a stern, wise woman ! 
That I have sinned, is very true — that I have betrayed thee, 
wronged thee ! It may be, had you spoke pardon yesterday — 
it might have been all well ! It may be it had been dishonor 
in you to take me to your arms ; but if to do so had been dis- 
honor yesterday, by what is it made honor now ? No ! no ! 
Charles de La-Hire — no ! no ! I had refused thee yesterday, 
hadst thou been willing to redeem me, by self-sacrifice, then, 
from the convent-walls ; I had refused thee then, with love 
warming my heart toward thee — in all honor! Force me not 
to reject thee now with scorn and hatred. Nor dare to think 
that Marguerite de Vaudreuil will owe to man's compassion 
what she owes not to love ! Peace, Charles de La-Hire ! — I 
say, peace ! my last words to thee have been spoken, and never 
will I hear more from thee ! And now, Sir King, hear thou — 
may God judge between thee and me, as thou hast judged ! 



THE SACRIFICE. 175 

If I was frail and fickle, nature and God made woman weak 
and credulous — but made man not wise, to deceive and ruin 
her. If I sinned deeply against this baron de La-Hire, I sinned 
not knowingly, nor of premeditation ! If I sinned deeply, more 
deeply was I sinned against — more deeply was I left to suffer 

— even hadst thou heaped no more brands upon the burning! 
If to bear hopeless love — to pine with unavailing sorrow — to 
repent with continual remorse — to writhe with trampled pride ! 

— if these things be to suffer, then, Sir King, had I enough suf- 
fered without thy just interposition !" As she spoke, a bitter 
sneer curled her lip for a moment : but as she saw Henry 
again about to speak, a wilder and higher expression flashed 
over all her features : her form appeared to distend, her bosom 
heaved, her eye glared, her ringlets seemed to stiffen, as if in- 
stinct with life. 

" Nay !" she cried, in a voice clear as the strain of a 
silver trumpet — "nay, thou shalt hear me out! And thou 
didst swear yesterday I should live in a cloister-cell for ever! 
and I replied to thy words then, ' Not long !' I have thought 
better now ; and now I answer, ' Never !' Lo here ! lo here ! 
ye who have marked the doom of Armand — mark now the 
doom of Marguerite ! Ye who have judged the treason, mark 
the doom of the traitress !" 

And with the words, before any one could interfere, even 
had they suspected her intentions, she raised her right hand 
on high — and all then saw the quick twinkle of a weapon — 
and struck herself, as it seemed, a quick, slight blow imme- 
diately under the left bosom ! It seemed a quick, slight blow ! 
but it had been so accurately studied — so steadily aimed and 
fatally — that the keen blade, scarcely three inches long and 
very slender, of the best of Milan steel, with nearly a third of 
the hilt, was driven home into her very heart. She spoke no 
syllable again, nor uttered any cry! — nor did a single spasm 



176 THE FALSE LADYE. 

contract her pallid features, a single convulsion distort her 
shapely limbs ; but she leaped forward, and fell upon her face, 
quite dead, at the king's feet!" 

Henry smiled not again for many a day thereafter. Charles 
de La-Hire died very old, a Carthusian monk of the strictest 
order, having mourned sixty years and prayed in silence for 
the sorrows and the sins of that most hapless being. 



THE VASSAL'S WIFE. 



CHAPTER I. 

The early sun was shining on as beautiful a morning of the 
merry month of May as ever lover dreamed or poet sang, over 
a gentle pastoral scene in the sunny land of France. It was a 
little winding dale between soft, sloping hills, covered with the 
tenderest spring verdure, and dotted with small brakes and 
thickets of hawthorn and sweet-brier ; the former all powdered 
over, as if by a snowstorm, with their sweet, white blossoms, 
and the others exhaling their aromatic perfume from every dew- 
spangled bud and leaflet. 

To the right hand the narrow dale widened gradually as it 
took its way — worn, doubtless, in past days by the waters of 
the noisy brooklet which flowed along its bottom over a bed of 
many-colored pebbles, among thickets of willow, alder, and 
hazel — toward a broad and beautiful valley, through which 
flowed the majestic volume of a great, navigable river. To the 
left it decreased in width, and ascended rapidly between steep 
banks to the spring-head of the rivulet, a clear, cold well, cov- 
ered by a canopy of Gothic architecture rudely chiselled in red 
sandstone. 

Above this the gorge of the ravine — for into such the dell 

8* 



178 

here degenerated — was thickly overshadowed by a grove of 
old tufted oak-trees, which might well have rung to the brazen 
trumpets of the Roman legions, and echoed the wild war-whoops 
of the barbarous Gauls in the days of the first Caesar. Shel- 
tered and half-concealed by these, there stood a very small, old- 
fashioned chapel, in the earliest and rudest style of Norman 
architecture, exhibiting the short, massive, clustered columns 
and round-headed arches of that antique style. It had never 
spire or tower ; but on the summit of the steep, peaked roof 
there was a little crypt or vaulted canopy, supported by four 
columns, and containing a bell proportioned to the dimensions 
of the humble village-chapel. 

The larger valley presented all the usual beauties of rural 
landscape scenery at that remote and unscientific day, when 
lands were principally laid down in pasture, and husbandry 
consisted mainly in the tending of flocks and herds. There 
were wide expanses of common ground, dotted here and there 
with few arable fields now green as the pastures with their 
young crops of wheat and rye ; there were woodlands bright in 
their new greenery, and apple-orchards, glowing with their fra- 
grant blossoms. There were scattered farmhouses among the 
orchards ; and an irregular hamlet scattered along a yellow road 
in the foreground, among shadowy elm-trees, all festooned with 
vines ; and far off, on the farthest slope on the verge of the 
horizon, the towers and pinnacles of a tall, castellated building 
towered above the grand and solemn woods, which probably 
composed the chase of some feudal seigneur. 

The little dale which I have described was traversed by two 
separate ways : one, a regular road, so far as any roads of the 
fourteenth century could be called regular, and adapted for 
horses and such rude vehicles as the age and the country re- 
quired ; the other, a narrow, winding foot-path, following the 
bends of the rivulet, which the other crossed by a picturesque 



THE BRIDAL PROCESSION. 179 

wooden bridge, at about five hundred yards below the well-head 
and the chapel. 

At the moment when my tale commences, the doors of the 
chapel were thrown wide open, and the little bell was tinkling 
with a merry chime that harmonized well with the gay aspect 
of nature — the music of the rejoicing birds which were filling 
the air with their glee, and the lively ripple of the stream fret- 
ting over its pebbly bed. 

As if summoned by the joyous cadence of the bells, a numer- 
ous party was now seen coming up the foot-path by the edge 
of the rivulet, apparently from the hamlet in the larger valley, 
wending their way toward the chapel. It needed but a glance 
to discover the occasion. It was a bridal-procession, headed 
by the gray-haired village priest in full canonicals, and some 
of the elders of the village. 

Behind these, lightly tripped six young girls, dressed in white, 
with crowns of May-flowers on their heads, and garlands of the 
same woven like scarfs across their bosoms. They were all 
singularly pretty, having been chosen probably for their beauty 
from among their playmates : they had all the rich, dark hair, 
flowing in loose ringlets down their backs ; the fine, expressive, 
dark eyes ; the peach-like bloom on the sunny cheeks, and the 
ripe, red lips, which constitute the peculiar beauty which is 
almost characteristic of the south of France. Each of these 
fair young beings carried on her arm a light wicker basket, 
filled with the bright field-flowers of that sunny land and sea- 
son — the purple violet, the rich jonquil, and pale narcissus, 
the many-colored crocuses from the mead, the primrose from 
the hedgerow-bank, the lily of the valley from the cool, shad- 
owy grove — and strewed them, as they passed along, before 
the footsteps of the bride ; chanting, as they did so, in the quaint 
old Gascon tongue, the bridal strain : — ■ 



180 THE VASSAL'S WIFE. 

"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home, 
Should blossom, should bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day !" 

After these, followed by her bridemaids, the bride stepped 
daintily and demurely along, the acknowledged beauty of the 
village, happy, and bright, and innocent — the young bride Mar- 
guerite. 

Her hair was of the very deepest shade of brown — so dark, 
that at first thought you would have deemed it black ; but when 
you looked again, you discovered, by the absence of the cold, 
metallic gloss upon its wavy surface, and by the rich, warm 
hue with which it glowed under the sunlight, what was its 
true color. Her forehead was not very high, but broad and 
beautifully formed, and as smooth as ivory ; while her arched 
eyebrows showed as black as night, and as soft and smooth as 
though they had been stripes of sable Genoa velvet. Her 
nose, if not absolutely faultless — for it had the slight upward 
turn which was so charming in Roxabara — added an arch and 
sprightly expression to features which were otherwise passive 
and voluptuous rather than mirthful ; but her eyes, her eyes 
were wonderful — like to no eyes on earth that have ever met 

my gaze, save thine, incomparable , which still shine 

upon my soul, though long unseen, and far away, never, never 
to be forgotten! — not star-like, but like wells of living, loving, 
languid lustrousness — brown of the deepest shade, filled with 
a humid, rapturous tenderness, yet brighter than the brightest, 
but with a soft, voluptuous, luminous brightness ; not flashing, 
not sparkling, but penetrating and imbuing the beholder with 
love at once and magic light. They were fringed, too, with 
lashes so long and dark, that, when her lids were lowered, 
they showed like fringes of raven-hued silk against the delicate 
blush of her round cheek. Her mouth, though perhaps rather 
wide, was exquisitely shaped, with the arched upper lip and 



THE MAY-BRIDE, MARGUERITE. 181 

fuhYpouting lower lip, of the color of the ripe clove-carnation, 
that woos the kiss so irresistibly ; with teeth as bright as 
mother-of-pearl, and a breath sighing forth sweeter than Indian 
summer. 

Such was the face of Marguerite, the bride of that. May 
morning ; nor was her form inferior to it. Modelled in the 
fullest and roundest mould that is consistent with symmetry 
and grace, her figure was the very perfection, the beau-ideal of 
voluptuous, full-blown, yet youthful womanhood. The broad, 
falling shoulders ; the fully-developed, glowing bust, swelling 
into twin hills of panting snow ; the round, shapely arms, bare 
to the shoulder ; the graceful and elastic waist ; the rich curve 
of the arched hips, and the wavy outlines of her lower limbs, 
suggesting, by the rustling folds of her draperies as she walked 
the dewy greensward like a queen, the beauty of their unseen 
symmetry : these, combined with the exquisite features, the 
singular expression uniting, what would appear to be incongru- 
ous and contradictory, much roguish archness, something that 
was almost sensual in the wreathed smile, and yet withal the 
most perfect modesty and innocence, rendered Marguerite, the 
May-bride of Castel de Roche d'or, one of the loveliest, if not 
the very loveliest creature that ever walked to church with her 
affianced Jover in that fair land of France. 

She wore, like her bridesmaids — who, all pretty girls, were 
utterly eclipsed by her radiant beauty — a May-wreath on her 
head, and a large bouquet of fresh violets on the bosom of her 
low-cut white dress, which was looped up at one side with 
bunches of narcissus and violets, to show an under-skirt of pale 
peach-colored silk, the tints of which showed faintly through 
the thin draperies of her tunic ; but, unlike them, she wore a 
long gauze veil, intertwined with silver threads, floating down 
among her luxuriant tresses, below her shapely waist. 

Never was there seen in that region a lovelier, a purer, or a 



182 

happier bride. Immediately behind the bridesmaids, supported 
in his turn by an equal number of tall, sinewy, well-formed 
youths, dressed in their best attire, half-agricultural, half-mar- 
tial, as feudal vassals of their lord, bound to man-service in the 
field, came on the stalwart bridegroom. He was a tall, athletic, 
well-made man of twenty-nine or thirty years, erect as a quar- 
ter-staff, yet showing in every motion an elastic pliability and 
grace, which, although in reality the mere result of nature, ap- 
peared to be the consequence either of innate gentility or of 
long usance to the habits of the upper classes. 

His complexion was that of the south — rich, sunny olive, 
without a tinge of color in the clear, dark cheek ; his hair black 
as the raven's wing, and his eyes of that wild, fiery shade of 
black which perhaps indicates a taint of Moorish blood. His 
features were very regular, and very calm in their regularity, 
though there was nothing pensive nor anything very grave in 
their expression. It was the calmness of latent passions, not 
the calmness of controlling principles — the stillness which pre- 
cedes the thunderburst, not the stillness of the subsident and 
overmastered storm : for the firmly-compressed lips, the square 
outlines of the hard, massive jaw, the immense muscular devel- 
opment of the neck, and the deeply-indented frown between 
the eyebrows, intersecting a furrow crossing the forehead from 
brow to brow, would have indicated at once to the physiogno- 
mist that Maurice Champrest was a man of the fiercest and 
most fiery energy and passions, concealed but not controlled — 
existing perhaps unsuspected, but utterly unchecked by any 
principle — and certain to start into a blaze at the first spark 
that should enkindle them. 

His dress was the usual attire of a man in his station at the 
period, though of finer materials than was ordinary, consisting 
of a dark forest-green gambison, or short tunic of fine cloth, 
not very different in form from the blouse of the modern French- 



MAURICE CHAMPREST. 183 

man, gathered about his waist by a broad belt of black leather, 
fastened in front by a brazen buckle, and supporting on one side 
a heavy, buckhorn-hilted wood-knife, and on the other a large 
pouch or purse of black cordovan, bound with silver ; his hose 
were of the same color with the tunic, fitting close to the shape- 
ly thigh, and above these he wore long boots of russet-tawny 
leather. His black hair fell in two heavy clubs or masses over 
each ear, nearly to the collar of his doublet, from beneath the 
cover of a small cap of black velvet, set jauntily on one side, 
and adorned with a single white-cock's feather. 

His appearance on the whole, though he was very far inferior 
in regard of personal beauty to the exquisite creature whom he 
was so soon to call his wife, was manly and imposing ; while 
the character of his dress and equipments, as well as the deco- 
rations of Marguerite and her attendant maidens, showed at once 
that they were all of a quality and station to the serfs employed 
in the cultivation of the lands of the great seigneurs, and in- 
deed to that of the ordinary armed vassals and feudal tenants of 
the day. 

In truth, Maurice Champrest was not only the richest farmer, 
but the highest military vassal under the fief of Raoul de Canil- 
lac, the marquis of Roche d'or, his ancestor having been ban- 
ner-bearer to the first lord of the name, and his people having 
held and cultivated the same farm for many a century, bound 
only to homage and free man-service in the field under the 
banner of his lord, to which in war he was held to bring five 
spearsmen and as many archers in full bodynge, as it was then 
technically termed, and effeyre-of-war. He was, in short, though 
not noble, nor what could be exactly termed a gentleman, of the 
very highest of feudal territorial vassals, not far removed from 
the class which were in England designated as franklins, al- 
though with fewer privileges and smaller real freedom, France 
having always been more rigidly feudal than the neighboring 



184 the vassal's wife. 

island, owing to the absence of the large admixture of Saxon 
blood and Saxon liberty, the latter of which soon began to pre- 
ponderate in the white-rocked isle of ocean. His beautiful 
bride Marguerite, though not his equal in birth — for her grand- 
father and grandmother, nay, her father himself, in his early 
youth, had been serfs — was a free-born and a gently-nurtured 
woman ; the old people having been manumitted and presented 
with a few acres of land, in consequence of the gallantry with 
which he had rescued the then seigneur of Roche d'or, when 
unhorsed and at the mercy of the German communes at the 
bloody battle of Bovines, stricken between Philip the August 
and his rebellious barons. 

This event had taken place years before the birth of Mar- 
guerite, and in fact when her father was a mere stripling ; and, 
as her mother was a woman of free lineage, neither serf nor 
villeyn, she was, of course, beyond the reach of cavil. Nay, 
more than this, the unusual courage of the old man on that 
dreadful day, and the consideration always manifested toward 
him by the then marquis and his immediate successor, had won 
for him a far higher standing than was usually accorded to 
manumitted serfs by the class next above them. Her family, 
moreover, in both the last generations, had prospered in worldly 
wealth, for the old serf was shrewd and wary, had hoarded 
money, and increased the extent of his rural demesne, till Mar- 
guerite, who was an only daughter, was not only a beauty but 
an heiress ; and probably, with the exception of her husband, 
would be, on the death of her parents, the richest person in the 
hamlet. She had received, moreover, advantages at that period 
very unusual indeed ; for having, when a mere child, attracted 
the attention of the late marchioness de Canillac by her grace, 
her beauty, and the artless naivete of her manners, she had been 
selected to attend, rather as a companion than a servant, on 
Mademoiselle de Roche d'or, a girl a few years her senior. 



EARLY LIFE OF MARGUERITE. 185 

The young lady had become much attached to Marguerite, 
and on being sent to a convent in the principal town of the de- 
partment for her education, as was usual, had obtained permis- 
sion that Marguerite might attend her still ; so that the young 
peasant had enjoyed all the advantages of mental culture grant- 
ed to the high-born damsel ; had profited by them to the utmost ; 
and had parted from her orphaned mistress only when, after 
the death of her parents, she was removed with her brother, 
the present marquis, to the guardianship of their next relative, 
the prince of Auvergne. In the meantime, while the marquis 
and his sister had breathed the atmosphere of courts and large cit- 
ies, far away from their native province, Marguerite had returned 
to the humble home of her parents which she had filled with 
happiness by the light of her loving eyes, and the harmonies of 
her soft, low voice ; had expanded from the bud into the full-blown 
flower, admired and beloved of all ; had burst from the frail 
and graceful girl into the exquisite and complete woman ; and, 
having long been loved of Maurice Champrest, and bestowed 
upon him all the tenderness and truth of her maiden affections, 
was now about to surrender her hand also to him unto whom 
she had been during the whole of the last year affianced. 

And now, with pipe and tabor, with the old, time-honored 
bridal-chorus, with flowers scattered along the way, and gar- 
lands swinging from the hedgerows by which she was to pass, 
and decorating the rude pillars and stern arches of the old 
Gothic church in which she was to wed, with all the village in 
her train, carolling and rejoicing at so suitable, so sweet a bri- 
dal, Marguerite, the bride of May, was led to the ceremony that 
should of the twain make one for ever and for ever, of which 
the word of God himself declared that whom he hath united 
no man shall put asunder. 

Merrily, with louder strains and blither minstrelsey, they 
wound up the little dell among the oaks, paused for a moment 



186 the vassal's wife. 

at the rustic fount to cross their brows with its holy waters, 
and entered the low portals of the village-chapel. The bells 
ceased tinkling ; the brief ceremnny was performed by the old 
priest who had baptized them both ; the hand of the down-eyed, 
blushing bride, still sparkling and smiling amid her happy, soft 
confusion, was placed in the ardent grasp of Maurice, and she 
was now her own no longer, but a wedded wife. 

She was wept over, blessed, caressed, and kissed, by half 
the company, and many a fervent prayer was breathed for the 
happiness, the complete and perfect bliss of Marguerite, the 
bride of May — alas for human hopes and the vain prayers of 
mortals ! — and then, while the bells struck up a livelier, louder 
chiming, and the bride-maidens trolled the chorus forth more 
cheerily — 

"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home, 
Should blossom, should bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!" — 

with many a manly voice swelling more lustily the nuptial ca- 
dence, they passed the little green descending to the horse- 
road, Marguerite clinging now to his supporting arm and look- 
ing tenderly up into his with eyes suffused with happy tears 
and cheeks radiant with dimpled smiles and rosy blushes. 

But at the moment when the bridal-train was wheeling down 
toward the road, and had now nearly reached the point of its 
intersection with the foot-path, the loud and noisy trampling of 
many horses, and the jingling clash of the harness of armed 
riders, was distinctly heard above the swelling chorus of the 
hymenean, above the chiming of the \vedding-bells ; and within 
a few seconds, two or three horsemen crossed the brow of the 
eastern hill, at a gentle trot, and were followed by a company 
of some fifty men-at-arms, under the guidance of an old officer, 
whose beard and hair, as white as snow, fell down over his 



AN APPROACHING CAVALCADE. 187 

gorget from beneath the small, black-velvet cap, which alone 
covered his head, for his helmet hung at his saddle-bow. The 
troopers were all armed point-device, in perfect steel, with long, 
pennoned lances in their hands, two-handed broadswords slung 
across their shoulders from the left to the right, and battle-axe 
and mace depending on this side or that from the pommels of 
their steel-plated saddles. Their horses, too — strong, power- 
ful brutes of the Norman stock, crossed with some lighter strain 
of higher blood — were barded, as it was termed, with cham- 
fronts and neck-plates, poitrels on the breast, and the bards 
proper covering the loins and croup ; and all were arrayed un- 
der a broad, square banner, blazoned, as if every eye of the 
bridal-party could at once distinguish, with the bearings of the 
lords of Castel de Roche d'or. 

No sooner had they discovered this, than they halted, and 
formed a line along the edge of the road, anxious to testify 
their respect to their young lord — who now, recently of age, 
was returning, after years of absence, from the chateau of his 
guardian — and eager to observe the passage of the cavalcade. 

The persons who led the approaching band were three in 
number, two of whom rode a few horse-lengths in advance of 
the third, and were evidently of rank superior to the rest ; while 
something seemed to indicate, though it was indefinite, and not 
very obvious how far it did so, that even between these two 
there subsisted no perfect equality. 

He to the left w r as the elder by many years ; a finely-formed 
and not ill-favored man, of some forty-five or fifty years ; mag- 
nificently apparelled in a suit of rich half-armor, with russet- 
leather boots meeting the taslets or thigh-pieces at the knee ; 
accoutred with heavy gilded spurs, and wearing on his head a 
crimson-velvet mortier, adorned by a massive gold chain, and 
a lofty plume of white feathers. 

And he it was, who, although in his outward show he was 



188 THE VASSALS WIFE. 

the more splendid — though he bestrode his steed with an air 
of pride so manifest, that you might have fancied he bestrode 
the universe — though he addressed all his inferiors with intol- 
erable haughtiness, and appeared to look upon all his equals as 
inferiors — yet, by his demeanor toward the youth who reined 
his Arab courser by his side, and by his almost servile watch- 
ing of his every motion, and lowering his voice at his every 
word, appeared to be oppressed in his presence by a sense of 
the utmost unworthiness, and scarcely to hold himself entitled 
to have an opinion of his own until sanctioned by that of the 
young marquis de Roche d'or. 

The features of this man were certainly well-favored rather 
than the reverse — for the brow, the eyes, the outlines, were all 
good ; and yet the expressions they assumed, as he was moved 
by varying passions, were so odious and detestable, that on a 
nearer view, a close observer would probably have styled him 
hideous, and avoided his advances. Pride, of the haughtiest 
and most intolerant form, would at one time writhe his lip and 
deform his every lineament ; at another, it would yield to the 
basest, the most abject servility. Cruelty alone sat fixed and 
permanent in the thick, massive, animal jaw, the low and some- 
what receding forehead, and the oblique glances of the cold, 
clear, gray eye ; but sensuality, and sneering sarcasm, and utter 
want of veneration or belief for anything high or holy, had left 
their hateful traces in the lines about his mouth and nostrils : 
nor were these odious, ineradicable signs of an atrocious char- 
acter redeemed by the evident presence of high intellect and 
pervading talents, for that intellect was of a shrewd, keen, cun- 
ning caste, and was in no wise akin to anything of an imagina- 
tive, a noble, or a virtuous type. 

Such was the appearance, such the aspect, of a man renowned 
in his day far and wide through France, but renowned for evil 
only. Such was Canillac lefou — a soubriquet which he had 



CANILLAC LE FOU. 189 

won throughout his province, for the insane, frantic, and unnat- 
ural vice and crime which had marked his whole career from 
boyhood. Canillac the madman! — and with good reason did 
the vassals of the old house of Roche d'or shrink upon them- 
selves, and draw instinctively one toward the other, like wild- 
fowl when they see the shadow of the soaring falcon, with a 
foreboding of peril near at hand, when they beheld this fierce, 
voluptuous, pitiless monster — whose favorite boast it was that 
he had never spared a woman in his passion, nor a man in his 
hatred — riding at the bridle-rein of their young lord, as his 
chosen friend and companion, and probably as the arbiter of his 
pleasures, instigator of his vices ! 

And of a truth they had good cause to shrink and tremble, 
an' had they but then known that which was even now im- 
pending, to curse the very hour in which he or they were born 
— he to inflict, they to endure the last, worst outrages of feudal 
tyranny and wrong ! 

But they as yet knew nothing, nor, save instinctively, fore- 
boded anything ; but he, with his keen, furtive, ever-roving 
glances, noted (what none less sly, suspicious, and acute, would 
have suspected) the secret and intuitive horror with which the 
peasantry of Castel de Roche d'or regarded him, and vowed at 
once within his secret soul that they should have good cause to 
curse him, and that speedily. 

His comrade, the young marquis, was, to the outward eye, a 
very different personage. Having barely reached his twenty- 
first year, he was as graceful and finely-framed a youth as ever 
sat a charger. His face, too, was very fine and regular, with 
the large, liquid, dark eyes, and deep, clear, olive tint, which 
are so common in the south of France. His hair was black as 
the raven's wing, with the same purplish, metallic lustre gleam- 
ing over its glossy surface, and fell in long, wavy, uncurled 
masses over the collar of the quilted gambison of rose-colored 



190 THE VASSAL'S WIFE. 

silk, which he wore under a shirt of flexible chain-mail, polished 
so brilliantly, that it flashed and sparkled in the morning sun- 
beams like a network of diamonds. 

The ordinary expression of his countenance was grave, calm, 
and melancholy ; yet it was impassive and cold, rather than 
thoughtful and imaginative, while there was an occasional flash- 
ing light in the sleepy eye, and a gleam of almost fierce intel- 
ligence in all the features, and a strange, animal curl of the 
pale lips, which seemed to tell that there lurked beneath that 
cold exterior a volcano of fierce and fiery passions, ready at any 
instant to leap into life, and consume whosoever should oppose 
his will. 

The keen observer of humanity would have pronounced him 
one cold, rather than collected ; selfish at once, and careless of 
the rights and happiness of others ; sluggish, perhaps, and diffi- 
cult to arouse, but, once aroused, impetuous, and of indomitable 
will — truly a fearful combination ! 

When the company had arrived within thirty or forty paces 
of the bridal-party, the villagers threw up their caps into the 
air, and raised aloud and joyous exclamation — "Vive Canil- 
lac ! vive Canillac ! Yive le beau marquis de Roche d'or !" — 
and, for the moment, the boy's face lighted up with a gleam of 
warm and honest feeling — gratification at the welcome of his 
people, and something of real sympathy with their condition. 

But just as he had determined to ride forward and return 
their kindly greeting with words of cheer and promise of pro- 
tection, the young and fiery Arab on which he was mounted, 
terrified by the shoutings, and the caps tossed into the air, 
reared bolt upright, made a prodigious bound forward, and then, 
wheeling round, yerked out his heels violently, and dashed 
away with such fury, that before the young rider, who sat as 
firmly in his saddle as though he had been a portion of the ani- 
mal, could arrest him, they were almost among the men-at-arms. 



A FIENDISH RESOLVE. 191 

The whole passed in a minute ; but that minute was of fear- 
ful import to many there assembled, many both innocent and 
guilty. Even in the point of time when the wild horse was 
plunging forward to the bridal-party, the young lord's eye, un- 
diverted by the sense of his own keen peril, had fallen upon 
the lovely face and exquisite symmetry of the fair bride, who, 
moved by a timid apprehension for the safety of the handsome 
cavalier, leaned forward a little way in front of her young com- 
panions, with clasped hands and cheeks blanched somewhat by 
sympathetic fear and pity. 

The blood rushed in a torrent to his cheek, and remained 
settled there in a red, hectic spot ; a fierce, unnatural light 
gleamed from his glassy eye, and his lip curled with an odious 
smile. A volume of fierce passions rushed over his soul, over- 
powering in an instant all his better characteristics. He was 
determined, in that instant, by that one glance, to possess her, 
reckless what misery and madness he might cause — reckless 
of all things, human or Divine ! 

And, whether the disembodied fiend, who, we are taught to 
believe, is ever ready at such moments of temptation to urge 
the incipient sinner on to deeper crime and ruin, did spur his 
wicked will or not — there was a human, sneering, tempting 
fiend, who, as he rode beside him, read his inmost soul in ev- 
ery look and gesture, and spared nothing of allurement to ex- 
cite him onward on that fell road of evil passions which should 
insure his subjugation to his own sins and their readiest min- 
ister. 

" Ha ! what is this ?" exclaimed the young man, almost an- 
grily, as he pulled up his violent horse, at length, beside the 
aged seneschal; "what is this, Michael Rubempre — or who 
am I, that my villeyns and serfs wed at their will, without my 
consent, or consideration of my droits and dues ?" 

" So please you, beau seigneur, these be no serfs," replied 



192 the vassal's wife. 

the old man, bowing low, " but vassals of the highest class, in 
this your lordship of Roche d'or — free vassals, beau sire, of 
the highest class. Your consent was applied for duly, and 
granted, in all form, by me, as, in your absence, by letters of 
instruction, your representative and agent. The dues were all 
paid, and a large present above them, as a donation to made- 
moiselle, your sister, on whom the young bride attended, when 
she dwelt in the house of the Ursulines, in Clermont." 

Darker and darker grew the brow of the young lord, as he 
listened ; for he could not fail to perceive the obstacles which 
were opposed to the atrocious wrong he meditated. Yet he 
listened sullenly to the end. 

" Ha !" he replied, moodily, " no droits, only dues, and those 
satisfied ! The worse for them, by heaven and hell, and all 
who dwell therein !" 

He paused a moment, with his hands clinched, and the veins 
upon his brow swollen into thick, azure cords, by the rush of 
the hot blood ; and then resumed, in a low, hissing tone, widely 
different from his usually slow and modulated voice : — 

" Who be they, Michael Rubempre ? I would give half my 
lands, they could be proved serfs. Can not this be done, Mi- 
chael ?" 

" Impossible, beau sire !" replied the old man, firmly, though 
there was much of anxiety, and even of alarm, in his eye ; " ut- 
terly impossible. The forefathers of Maurice Champrest came 
into the lands of Roche d'or with the first Canillac, and he 
holds the same farm still, under the first grant, by tenure of 
man-service, only on the field of battle. He is your lordship's 
greatest vassal, and brings five spears and as many crossbows 
to the banner of Roche d'or, serving himself on horseback." 

" Ha! curses on it! curses on it! And she — who is she ! 
By heaven, she is the loveliest creature I ever looked upon! 
Who is she ? ha !" 



THE VOICE OF THE TEMPTER. 193 

" Her grandfather, beau sire, then a serf — permitted, through 
the exigency of the times, to bear arms in the field — saved the 
life of your lordship's grandsire, by taking in his breast the 
pike-thrust intended for his lord. For this good deed, he was 
manumitted, with his wife and son, who is now a free vassal 
and a large tenant of Roche d'or, bringing six crossbows to your 
banner. Marguerite was selected by the marquise to wait on 
Mademoiselle de Canillac de Roche d'or, and was educated 
with her, almost as a friend. She is the best girl, too, in all 
the village." 

" Ha ! so much the worse ! Curses on it — twenty thousand 
curses !" 

And he had turned his horse's head again, to ride on his way, 
apparently convinced that for this time, at least, his wicked will 
must be balked of its fulfilment ; but at this moment, the voice 
of the tempter, Canillac the madman — mad in his crimes alone, 
for his wily and diverse intellect was clear as that of Catiline, 
whom he in some sort resembled — addressed him, calm, yet 
cutting and sarcastic : — 

" What is it that has moved you so much, beau cousin ? Me- 
thinks your people's greeting should enliven, not depress you." 

" Tush !" the young man replied, almost savagely ; " tush ! 
You are no fool, Canillac !" 

" Not much, I think ; though they do call me Canillac lefou ! 
But what then, what then, beau cousin ?" 

" Did you not see her ? did you not see her, Canillac ? As 
I hope to live before God, she is the loveliest piece of woman's 
flesh I ever looked upon! I would give — I would give half 
my lands, half my life, that I had droits seignorial over her ; 
but I have dues, dues only, and they are satisfied. She is free 
— a free woman of her own right, and can not be mine." 

" Were I you, cousin, and I so desired her as you do, she 
should be mine, ere nightfall !" 

9 



194 THE VASSALS WIFE. 

" How so ? how so ?" asked the young man, sharply. " Did 
I not tell you she is free — free — that I have no droits over her, 
and do you tell me I can make her mine ?" 

" What if she be 1 She is but a peasant-wench — one of the 
mere canaille. I would regard her squalling no more than a 
kitten's mewing ; nay, rather I would glory in it, for I am sick 
to death of your complaisant beauties. Besides, she is not free, 
if she was born while her father was a serf, unless she was 
named in the deed of manumission." 

" But she must have been born years afterward. Look at 
her, man : she could not have been born in my grandfather's 
time." 

" Deny that she is free. Have her up with us to the castle, 
now. Hold her there as a hostage, till she be proven free. If 
you be not aweary of her, ere the week is ended, I will find 
twenty men who shall swear she was born in the days of Sir 
Noah in the ark, if it be needful." And he laughed scornfully. 

" By Heaven, I will not weary of her in a week of years ! 
But it is well advised. I will essay it." 

" Essay nothing : do it ! Promise to hold her in all honor. 
Promises cost no man anything, nor oaths either, for that mat- 
ter, which is fortunate ; for, by mine honor, she is. fitter to be a 
prince's paramour than a Jacque's wife. So forward !" 

And, with the word, they galloped forward, and pausing ex- 
actly in front of the bride, who stood between her husband and 
the priest — shrinking with modesty and terror from the ardent 
and licentious gaze which he riveted on her glowing charms — 
he began to rate the latter for daring to wed a serf-girl to a free 
vassal without his lord's consent, and the former for presuming 
to defraud his siegneur of his droits. 

In vain the good curate explained and expostulated ; in vain 
twenty oaths were proffered by contemporaries of the girl's 
grandsire, that she was free ; in vain the husband tendered 



195 

security, and offered rich donations ; in vain the village-maidens 
grovelled before the young lord's charger's hoofs, and clasped 
his knees in an agony of fruitless supplication ! The wrong 
was predetermined ; the wronger was a strong man, armed ; and 
how should humble innocence prevail against the might which 
makes the right, where violence is masterful, and law its abject 
servitor ? 

To make a sad tale short, Raoul de Canillac announced his 
determination to carry her up to the castle presently, and hold 
her there in trust, until such time as a " court-baron" could be 
held to decide on the question of her manumission. He plight- 
ed his knightly word, however, his honor, as a peer of France, 
that she should be treated with all tenderness, as one who had 
waited on his sister ; and returned to her husband, in all honor, 
should she be pronounced free : but this on the condition only 
that she should render herself freely up and gently, and go 
without resistance or complaint. To this he added, that, as an 
act of grace and favor, and to prove that he would deal with 
them in all faithfulness of honor, he would himself hold court 
at high noon to-morrow, at which he cited all his vassals to ap- 
pear, and enjoined it on the priest, the parents, and the bride- 
groom, then and there to produce the testimonials of her birth 
or manumission ; or, failing that, to remain for ever mute. 
Lovely as ever, if not lovelier, paler than the white lily, and 
like it drooping when its fair head is surcharged with dew- 
drops, and deluged with soft, silent tears, the miserable Mar- 
guerite sank on her husband's breast in one last, long embrace. 

Fire flashed from the dark eyes of Raoul de Canillac, and 
the blood literally boiled in his veins, as he saw that lovely form 
clasped close by arms other than his own — those lips polluted, 
as he termed it, by the kiss of a peasant ! 

" Enough of this !" he cried. " Set her upon the palfrey — 
the gray palfrey we brought down for my sister. You, Amelot 



196 the vassal's wife. 

de 1'Aigle, guide it," he continued, " but keep her in the mid- 
dle of the lances." 

But the wretched girl had fainted ; and they were forced to 
place her on a cloak, doubled upon the bows of the demipique, 
in front of the page, to whose waist she was bound by a silken 
scarf, to prevent her falling to the ground. The tears stood in 
the eyes of the good old senechal ; and the faces of many of 
the men-at-arms, who were all of the same class with the bride- 
groom, and many of them his comrades and friends, were dark 
and sullen. None, however, dared to remonstrate, much less 
to resist the authoritative mandate of the feudal tyrant. 

No words, however, can express the scene which ensued as 
the cavalcade swept onward at a rapid pace, leaving behind 
them agony, and desolation, and despair, where all, before their 
coming, had been happiness, and innocent, quiet bliss, and hope- 
ful peace ! The stifled wailing of the girls, the silent agony 
of the hopeless bridegroom, the deep, scarcely-smothered exe- 
crations of the men — it was a scene as terrible and heart-rend- 
ing as that which preceded it had been delightful and cheering 
to the soul. 

At length the priest, raising his arms toward heaven, cried in 
a low and plaintive voice — 

" My children, let us pray ; let us pray to the most high God, 
that he will keep our sweet sister Marguerite in innocence and 
honor, and give her back to us in happiness and peace. Let 
us pray !" 

And every voice responded of all who heard his words ; ev- 
ery voice, save one, responded, " Let us pray !" and every knee 
was bent as they bowed them in a sorrowing circle around 
their monitor and friend — every knee, save that of Maurice 
Champrest ; but he stood erect, and pulled his hat over his 
brows, and folded his arms across his chest, and exclaimed, as 
the ravishers of his sweet wife wound through the dale into the 



ARRIVAL AT THE CASTLE. 197 

larger valley : " Earth has no justice, Heaven no pity ! Man 
has no honor, God no vengeance !" 

But on rode the tyrants, onward — careless of the ruin they 
had wrought, ruthless toward the innocence they had deter- 
mined to destroy ; confident in the puissance of their prowess, 
and almost defying the thunders of Heaven, which were even 
then rolling and muttering far away among the volcanic peaks 
of the Mont d'or. Were these the omens of a coming storm ? 

They reached the esplanade before the castle-gates, and Mar- 
guerite was still unconscious. Happy had she nevermore re- 
gained her consciousness ! But as the horses' hoofs thundered 
over the echoing drawbridge, the clang roused her from her 
swoon. She raised herself up, drew her ha*id across her brow, 
as if to clear away some imaginary mist obscuring her mental 
vision, and gazed wildly and hurriedly around her on the strange 
objects which met her eyes, as if she had not as yet realized 
to herself her condition, nor altogether knew her destination. 
As she was carried, however, through the dim, resounding vault 
of the barbacan, and heard the grating clang of the portcullis 
when it thundered down behind her, a sense of her lost condi- 
tion flashed upon her soul, and a voice seemed to whisper in 
her ear those words of horrible import which Dante, in after- 
days, inscribed upon the gates of hell : " On entering here, 
leave every hope behind !" 

Still she shrieked not, nor wept, nor craved or sympathy or 
pity ; for too well did she know that the hearts of those to 
whom she should appeal were harder, colder than their own 
iron breastplates ; her only confidence was in her own strenu- 
ous virtue, her only hope in Him who alone can save. 

She was lifted from the horse, not only with some show of 
gentleness, but even of respect, without receiving word or sign 
of intelligence from the young lord of Roche d'or, who strode 
away, accompanied by his ill-counsellor, Canillac the madman, 



198 the vassal's wife. 

toward the banqueting-room, wherein the noontide meal was 
prepared already, and where the flower of the knights and no- 
bles of the province were assembled to welcome the new-comer, 
Then she was conducted by the page through several long, 
winding passages, to a sort of withdrawing-room, in which she 
found several female-servants of the higher class, to the care of 
one of whom she was consigned, with a few words of whispered 
orders, by her conductor, who bowed low and retired. The 
girls looked at her for a moment or two earnestly, inquiringly — 
eying her gay bridal-dress, so ill-suited to the mode of her ar- 
rival, with an air between suspicion and sympathy — until, at 
length, one of them seemed to recognise her, and exclaimed : 
" Mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! if it be not the fair Marguerite !" 

And then, as pity seemed to prevail over all other feelings, 
they crowded round her kindly and respectfully ; and after a 
few kindly-intended but little-meaning words, one of them of- 
fered to conduct her to her appointed chamber, promising to 
bring her refreshments shortly, and saying that doubtless she 
would prefer to take some repose, and be alone. 

Through dark, circuitous passages, vaulted with solid stone, 
and ribbed as though they had been hewn out of the living rock, 
and up interminable winding stairs, she led her, until her brain 
whirled round and round, and her senses were almost bewil- 
dered. At length they reached the topmost story of the huge, 
square tower, and, opening a low, arched door, the hapless 
bride was ushered into a room so sumptuously furnished as 
Marguerite had never seen or dreamed of; and then, with a 
deep reverence, and a half-compassionate air, the attendant 
maiden left her, a prisoner ; for she heard the lock turned from 
without, and her heart fell at the sound. 

The sun, which had turned already toward the westward, was 
pouring a rich stream of light through the oriel window, over 
the tapestried walls and floor ; over the velvet bed in a deep 



THE CAPTIVE'S PRAYER. 199 

alcove ; over the soft arm-chairs, and central table covered with 
a splendid carpet, and strewn with illuminated books, and rich, 
sculptured cups and vases. But it was on none of these that 
the eyes of Marguerite dwelt meaningly ; for, as they wandered 
over these, half-marvelling amid her terrors at their beauty, she 
discerned an oaken prie-D leu, in a small niche beside the win- 
dow, with a missal on its embroidered cushion, and a crucifix 
with the sacrificed Redeemer looking down from it on the re- 
pentant sinner. 

In an instant, she was on her knees before the image of her 
God, pouring forth the whole of her innocent and spotless soul, 
in the holiest of supplications. She prayed for aid from on 
high to preserve her unstained virtue ; she prayed for strength 
from on high to resist temptation ; she prayed for pardon from 
on high for her sins and errors past, for grace that she might 
err no more in future ; she prayed that He, who alone could 
pity human suffering — for that he had suffered as no man suf- 
fereth — would touch the hearts of her ruthless persecutors, 
through his Virgin Mother ; she prayed that he would console 
her sorrowing parents, and him whom she scarcely dared think 
of, so terrible she knew must be his anguish ; lastly, she prayed 
for pardon to her persecutor, and that, if she were doomed that 
night to perish, her soul might be received to grace, through 
the intercession of the saints, and her, the ever-blessed, the 
Virgin Mother Mary ! 

Her prayer, if in form it were erroneous, in spirit was sincere 
and fervent ; and, as sincere and fervent prayers will ever, surely 
must hers have found a hearing at the throne of mercy, for she 
arose from her knees confirmed, if not consoled, and strength- 
ened in her virtuous principles, and calm by the very strength 
of her resolves. 

Then, opening the oriel window, she stepped out into the 
little balcony, or bartizan, which projected out beyond the face 



200 the vassal's wife. 

of the wall — perhaps in the hope of finding some means of 
escape ; but, alas ! if such a hope had flattered her, it was delu- 
sive ; for there was no egress from it, nor any method of de- 
scending ; and it impended far over the broad, deep moat, a 
hundred feet or more above its dark, clear waters — which, she 
remembered to have heard men say, were fifty feet in depth to 
the bottom of their rock-hewn channel. Long, long she gazed 
over the lovely sunlit valley of her birth, which all lay mapped 
out in the glorious glow before her eyes ; the happy home among 
the limes, beneath which she was born ; the happier home of 
promise, into which she had hoped that day to be led by him 
whom she loved the best ; the little chapel in the dell, among 
the oaks, in which she had plighted, that very morn, her faith 
for ever, until death, and death alone, should dissolve the bonds. 

"And death alone," she exclaimed, as the thoughts swelled 
upon her soul, " and death alone shall dissolve them ! But I 
must not look upon these things — I must not think of him — or 
my spirit will sink into utter weakness !" Then she paused, 
and, leaning over the low breastwork of the bartizan, looked 
down with a steady eye into the abyss, and crossing herself 
as she rose — " May God assoil my soul, if I be driven to do 
this thing, as do it of a surety I will, if otherwise I may not 
save my honor !" 

Then she returned into the chamber, leaving both lattices of 
the oriel open ; and seated herself calmly near the window, 
with her eyes fixed on the effigy of her dying God, expecting 
that which should ensue, in trembling and shuddering of the 
spirit, it is true, yet in earnest resignation and fixed purpose. 

Ere long, a step approached the door, but it was light and 
gentle ; and, when the lock was turned, it was the girl who had 
led her thither, bearing wine and refreshments on a silver sal- 
ver : but, though the attendant pressed her kindly to take com- 
fort and to eat, that she might be strengthened, she refused all 



A MOMENTARY HOPE. 201 

consolation, and only drank a deep draught of the cold spring- 
water, to quench the feverish thirst which parched her very- 
vitals. Seeing at once that the prisoner would not be consoled, 
nor enter into any conversation, the maiden bade her " Good- 
night, and God speed her !" and added that she believed she 
would not be disturbed that night, for the gentles were revel- 
ling furiously in the great hall : and the feast, she believed, 
would efface all thought of her. 

" God grant that it may be so," she replied, fervently ; " for 
if I live scatheless until to-morrow morn, I am free and happy ! 
No court on earth can dare decide against the testimony we 
shall show to-morrow." 

But, in His wisdom — we, blind wretches, can not discern, 
may not conjecture wherefore — he did not grant it. 

The sunlight faded from the sky, as the great orb went down ; 
and the stars came out, one by one ; and then the moon arose, 
nigh to the full, and filled the skies with glory, and the maiden 
May-bride's heart with increasing hope on earth, and gratitude 
toward Heaven. But little did she dream that he, she had that 
morning wedded, lay, even now, at the verge of the moat, 
watching her oriel window, with agony and desperation at his 
heart ; yet so it was. When she stepped on the bartizan, he 
had been observing the castle with an angry and jealous eye 
from the skirts of the nearest woodland ; and, though it was 
nearly a mile distant, the lover's glance of instinct had at once 
detected the loved and lovely figure. As the shades of evening 
closed, and night fell thick before the moon arose, he had crept 
up, pace by pace, till he had reached the brink of the moat, un- 
seen of the warders on the keep and the flanking walls ; and 
now he lay couched in the rank grass, almost within reach of 
his beloved, able to hear every sound — should sound come 
forth — from her gentle lips, yet powerless to succor, impotent 
to save ! 

9* 



202 the vassal's wife. 

It was now nigh midnight, and Marguerite had begun to 
frame to herself a hope that she was indeed forgotten ; when 
suddenly the sound of feet, coming up the winding stair, aroused 
her. The sounds were of the feet of two men : the one, heavy 
and uncertain, as of a person who had drunk too deeply ; the 
other light and agile. 

She rose to her feet, with her heart throbbing as though it 
would have burst her boddice. " The time of my trial hath 
come ! My God, my God, now aid, or, if need be, forgive thy 
servant !" 

The door flew open, and at the sight hope fled her bosom, if 
any hope had so long dwelt within it. 

Flushed with wine — inebriate, almost — with his doublet 
unbraced, and his points unfastened — with a glowing cheek, a 
sparkling eye, and an unsteady gait, Raoul de Canillac stood 
before her — the page Amelot bearing a waxen torch before 
him, which he placed in a candelabrum near the bed, and that 
done, retiring. 

As the door closed, the young lord moved toward her, while 
she stood gazing at him like a deer at bay, with a sad, liquid 
eye, and the tears rolling down her cheeks, yet motionless and 
dauntless. 

" Dry thy tears, sweet one," he exclaimed, " or rather weep 
on, till I kiss them from thy cheeks, and replace them by smiles 
of rapture. Girl, I adore thee. Be but mine, and I will change 
thine every bunch of silly-flowers for gems worth an earl's ran- 
som ; better to be — " 

" Seigneur Raoul de Canillac," she interrupted him, m tones 
so calm, that he was compelled to pause and listen — " marquis 
of Roche d'or, knight of the Holy Ghost, as you are prince and 
noble, as you are peer of France and belted knight, hear me, 
and spare me ! By the soul of your mother, who was chaste 
wife to your lordly father ! by the honor of your sister, who is 



DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR. 203 

spotless demoiselle ! spare me, who am at once chaste wife 
and spotless maiden ! Conquer me you may, perchance, by 
brute force ; win me, by words, you never can ! Nor would I 
yield to thee one favor, were death itself the alternative !" 

" Brute force, then, be it !" he replied, though, half-awed by 
her manner, he advanced no farther ; " for, conquer thee I will, 
if I may not win thee, though my mother's soul stood palpable 
between us, and my sister's honor were trampled underneath 
my feet, as I spring on to seize thee !" 

" False knight, your plighted honor ! bad lord, your promised 
faith !" she cried, so loud and clear, that her every accent reached 
the ear and tore the heart of Maurice Champrest below. 

" Honor !" he shouted, sneeringly ; " to the wild winds with 
honor ! Faith ! who kept faith with a woman ever ?" 

And he dashed at her with a bound so sudden and unexpect- 
ed, that he cleared the space between them, and had his arms 
around her, in an instant. 

She thought that she was lost, and uttered one wild shriek, 
so long, so shivering, so thrilling, that not one ear that heard it 
but felt as if a lance had pierced it.- But virtue gave her strength, 
as vice and excess had robbed him of it ; and, with a perfect 
majesty, she thrust him from her, that he staggered and fell 
headlong. 

One spring, and she had cleared the oriel window ; another, 
and she stood upon the dizzy brink. " My God, forgive mine 
enemy ! Jesus, receive my soul !" 

She veiled her head with her bridal-veil, and, with her white 
arms clasped above it, stooped herself, and plunged headlong ! 

For one second, there was seen by every eye, within eye- 
shot, a long, white gleam, glancing downward through the 
misty moonlight — 

For one second, there was heard by every ear, within ear- 
shot, a dreadful, hurtling sound — 



204 the vassal's wife. 

And then a sudden plash, and the waters of the moat flashed 
upward in the serene moonlight, and closed over the head of 
chaste, unspotted Marguerite ! 

But another plunge followed instantly ; and, within one sec- 
ond, she was drawn forth and clasped in her husband's arms, 
shattered and stunned, and beyond all hope of life, yet still not 
wholly dead. 

A few long minutes passed — minutes as long as years — 
and then, warmed into life by the pressure of that fond breast, 
she revived ; her dying eyes looked into his ; she knew him — 
she was blest! — 

"Maurice — I am thine — in death, as in life — thine own, 
thine own, pure Marguerite — kiss — kiss me ! lam gone — 
hus-husband !" 

And she died, happy — died, may we not trust, forgiven ! — 

And he howled out a hideous curse against the castle, and 
against its lord, and against, all whom its guilty walls protected ; 
and then, bearing his dead bride in his arms, away through the 
darkness of the night — away, with a speed mocking the fleet 
pursuit of horses ! 

The sunrise of the morrow shone down upon the corpse of 
Marguerite, clad in her bridal-veil and marriage-garments, drip- 
>ing and soiled with moisture, outstretched upon the very altar 
before which the preceding dawn had seen her wedded. 

But years elapsed ere Maurice Champrest was seen again 
in the hamlet of Castel de Roche d'or ; and, when he was seen 
there, it was a sorry sight to many a noble eye, and the very 
stones cried " Wo !" when the Vassal's Wife was avenged on 
her destroyer. 



A SERVILE INSURRECTION. 205 



CHAPTER II. 

They were dark and dismal days in the fair land of France. 
Foreign invasion was triumphant, domestic insurrection was 
rife. 

The terrible and fatal field of Poictiers, the field of the Black 
Prince, had stricken down at a single stroke the might of a 
great, a glorious nation ; her king a captive in a foreign dun- 
geon ; one third of the best and bravest nobles dead on the 
field of honor, or languishing in English fetters ; a weak and 
nerveless regent, on her throne ; and Charles, the bad king of 
Navarre, the counsellor, the nearest to his ear. 

Half of the realm at least was held directly under English 
sway, with garrisons of English archers in the towns, and the 
red-cross banner of St. George floating above her vanquished 
towers ; and in the provinces, still nominally French, armies 
of free companions sweeping the fields of their harvests far and 
near, plundering the cottage, pillaging the castle, levying con- 
tributions on open towns, storming by force strongholds — Eng- 
lish, Gascons, and Normans — led for the most part by men of 
name and renown — bastards, in many cases, of great and noble 
houses, such as the bourg de Maulion, and the bourg de Ker- 
anlouet, and a hundred others of scarcely inferior fame — had 
subjected the country scarcely less effectually than it had been 
done elsewhere by open, honorable warfare. 

To this appalling state of things a fresh horror was now 
added, where horror was least needed — and that the most tre- 
mendous of all horrors, a servile insurrection — the sudden, and 
spontaneous, and victorious outbreak of ignorant, down-trodden, 
vicious, cruel, frenzied, and brutal slaves! 



206 the vassal's wife. 

The nobles themselves — who, had they been combined, and 
acted promptly and in unison, could have crushed the life out 
of the insurrection in a week — divided into hostile parties, dis- 
pirited by the wonderful successes of the victorious English, 
intimidated and crest-fallen — held themselves aloof the one 
from the other ; and, attempting to defend their isolated fortres- 
ses singly, without either concert or system, allowed themselves 
to be surprised in detail, and butchered upon their own hearth- 
stones, by the infuriated serfs. 

All horrors, all atrocities that can be conceived, were perpe- 
trated by the victors, maddened by long years of servitude and 
suffering, by deprivation of all the rights and decencies which 
belong of nature to every living man, and by the enforcement 
of droits so infamous and unnatural, that it is only wonderful 
how men should have so long endured them ! Not the least 
galling of these was that feudal right which permitted the seign- 
eur to compel the virgin bride on her wedding-day to his own 
bed, and then return her dishonored to the arms of her impas- 
sive husband — a right which not merely existed in abeyance, 
or, as in latter days, was compounded by a fine, but which was 
an every-day occurrence, a usage of the land — to enforce which 
was no more considered cruel or tyrannical than to collect rents, 
or tithes, or any other feudal dues — and which was not finally 
abolished until the reign of Louis XIV., when it was at length 
suppressed in those memorable assizes, known as the grands 
jours aV Auvergne, when many of the noblest of the land died 
by the hands of the common executioner for tyranny and per- 
secution. 

When, therefore, crimes like these, and worse, were perpe- 
trated daily under the sanction and authority of feudal law ; 
when they had been endured for years — not, indeed, without 
feelings of the direst bitterness and rage, but without loud com- 
plaint or general resistance, by all the serfs and villeyns of the 



WAR TO THE CASTLE. 207 

land — what wonder was it that these miserable, trampled 
wretches, scarcely human, save in form, from the squalid 
wretchedness of their condition, and the studious care of their 
oppressors to prevent their progress or improvement — what 
wonder, I say, was it, that, seeing at length their opportunity, 
when their lords were distracted by foreign conquests, by the 
devastations of robber-bands, and by their own political dissen- 
sions or social feuds, they should have sprung to arms every- 
where — their cry, " War to the castle, peace to the cottage !" 
— seeking redress or revenge, and braving death willingly, as 
less intolerable than the wrongs they had been so long endu- 
ring in sullen desperation 1 What wonder was it, that, when 
victorious, they, who never had been spared, should have shown 
themselves unsparing ; that they, whose hearths had been to 
them no safeguards for any sanctity of domestic life, no asylums 
for any age or sex, should have wreaked upon the dwellers of 
the castles the wrongs which for ages had been the inheritance 
of the inmates of the cottages ; that they, whose wives and 
daughters had never found protection from worse than brutish 
violence in tender years, in innocence of unstained virtue, in 
the weakness of imploring beauty, should have requited, on the 
wives and daughters of their tyrants, pollution by pollution, 
infamy, and death 1 

Such, such, alas ! is human nature ; and rare it is indeed that 
suffering at the hands of man teaches man moderation to the 
sufferers when it becomes his turn to suffer. Injustice hardens, 
not melts, the heart ; and we have it, from no less an authority 
than the word of Him who can not lie, that " persecution maketh. 
wise men mad" — but, of a surety, the wretched serfs and Jac- 
querie were far enough removed from wisdom, however they 
might be deemed mad, nor were many of their actions very far 
removed from madness. Knights crucified above the altars of 
their own castle-chapels, while their wives were dishonored, 



208 THE VASSALS WIFE. 

tortured, and slain, with all extremities of cruelty, before their 
eyes ; infants tossed upon pikes, or burnt alive, in the presence 
of their frantic mothers ; women compelled to eat the flesh of 
their own husbands, roasted at their own kitchen-grates ere yet 
life was extinct ; the whole land filled with blood and ruin, and 
the smoke of conflagration going up night and day to the indig- 
nant and polluted heavens — these were the signs of those dark 
and awful times, these were the first fruits of the conquered 
liberty of the emancipated helots of the feudal system ! 

And when, nerved at length by the very extremity of peril, 
the nobles took up arms to make common cause against the 
common enemy, they found themselves isolated and hemmed in 
on all sides, unable to draw together so as to make head against 
the countless numbers of the enemy, which, like the waters of 
an inundation, increased hourly, and waxed wider, deeper, 
stronger, as it rolled onward. Large bodies could not be col- 
lected ; small bodies were cut off; till at length so completely 
were the proud and warlike nobles of the most warlike land in 
Europe cowed and disheartened by the triumph of their de- 
spised and degraded slaves, that fifty men, armed cap-a-pie, and 
mounted on their puissant destriers, who would, six months be- 
fore, have couched their lances confidently, and ridden scathe- 
less through thousands of the skinclad Jacquery — trampling 
them at leisure under the hoofs of their barded horses, and, in- 
vulnerable themselves, spearing them at their will from their 
lofty demipiques — now felt their proud hearts tremble at the 
mere blast of a peasant's horn, and fled ingloriously before an 
equal number of undisciplined and half-armed serfs ! 

About the period, however, of which I write, several encoun- 
ters had taken place, especially in Touraine, in the Beauvoisis, 
and the country about the Seine, between the chivalry and their 
insurgent villeyns, in which the former had been worsted, not 
so much by superior forces as by superior courage, discipline, 



THE BLACK RIDER. 209 

and skill. And it came to be rumored far and near that there 
was one band, and that the fiercest and most cruel of all — con- 
sisting of above a thousand foot, spears, and crossbow-men, and 
led by a powerful man-at-arms, before whose lance everything 
was said to go down — at the head of nearly a hundred fully- 
equipped lances, which was in no respect unequal to the best 
arrays of the nobility with their feudal vassals. 

What was at first mere rumor, soon came to be accredited — 
soon came to be undoubted truth ; for, emboldened by their suc- 
cesses from attacking the parties of chivalry in detail, as they 
fell upon them traversing the country in the vain hope of com- 
binations, this great band now began to sit down before strong 
towns and fortified holds, to besiege them in due form of war, 
and were in every instance successful. 

Their numbers, too, increased with their success, for every 
knight or man-at-arms who fell, or was taken prisoner, mounted 
and armed a peasant ; and it was singular to observe with what 
skill and judgment the leader apportioned his best spoils to his 
best men : so that, developing his resources slowly — never 
admitting any man to enter his cavalry who had not approved 
himself a soldier, who could not ride well, and charge a lance 
fearlessly, nor enrolling any one among his footmen who was 
not well armed with a corslet or shirt-of-mail, and steel cap or 
sallet, with sword, dagger, and pike, or crossbow — he was soon 
at the head of two thousand excellent foot, and above three 
hundred lances, admirably mounted, who fought under his own 
immediate orders. 

Who he was, no one knew, or conjectured. It was reported 
that his own men were unacquainted with his name, and that 
his face, when the vizor of his helmet was raised, was covered 
by a sable mask. How much of truth or falsehood there might 
be in these vague rumors, no man seemed to know ; but it is 
certain that a mysterious and almost supernatural terror at- 



210 THE VASSAL'S WIFE. 

tached to the " Black Rider," as lie was universally termed, 
whenever he was spoken of — a terror which perhaps he took 
a secret pleasure in augmenting, either from motives of policy 
or of pride. 

The strong suit of knight's armor which he wore, of the best 
Milan steel, was black as night from the crest to the spur, with- 
out relief of any kind, or device on the shield, or heraldric crest 
on the burgonet. The plume which he wore on his casque was 
similar to those affixed in modern days to hearses ; and another, 
its counterpart, towered between the ears of his charger, which 
was a coal-black barb, without one white hair in its glossy hide, 
barded with chamfront, poitrel, neck-plates, and bard proper, 
all of black steel, with funeral-housings of black cloth. 

Such was the man who alone of the leaders of the Jacquerie 
seemed to make war on a system, acting according to the dic- 
tates of the soundest judgment rather than, like the others, by 
wantonness or whim ; permitting no license, nor promiscuous 
individual pillaging, but causing all plunder to be brought to- 
gether for the common weal — thus making war support war, 
according to the prescribed plan of the greatest of modern con- 
querors — and subsisting his men on the spoils of the powerful 
and rich, without trespassing in any wise on the property of 
the poor, whose favor it was his object to conciliate. 

It came, too, to be understood, ere long, that his cruelty was 
no less systematic than his plundering. No wanton barbarity, 
no torturing, roast, crucifying, or the like, was ever perpetrated 
by his band ; and of himself, it was notorious that, except in 
open warfare or in the heat of battle, he had never dealt a blow 
against a man, or laid a rude hand on a woman, of the hated 
caste of nobles. Still, neither man nor woman ever escaped 
his rancorous and premeditated vengeance. 

Every male noble, of whatever age — gray-haired, or full- 
grown man, stripling, or child, or infant in the cradle — no 



NEITHER AGE NOR SEX SPACED. 211 

sooner was he taken than he was hanged on the next tree if in 
the open field, or from the pinnacles of his own castle if within 
stone walls. 

Every female of noble birth — and to these, though he never 
looked on them himself, nor was tempted by the charms of the 
fairest — was delivered at once to the mercies of his men, sub- 
jected to the last dishonor ; and then, when life was intolerable 
to them, and death welcome, they were drowned in the nearest 
stream or lake, if in the open country, or cast from the battle- 
ments into the moat, if captured within the precincts of a fort- 
alice. 

So rigidly did he adhere to this last mode of execution, often 
carrying his victims along with the band for several days until 
he could find a suitable place for drowning them, that it was 
soon determined that he must have some secret motive, or strong 
vow, binding him to this strange course — the rather that there 
were many reasons for believing him to be a man naturally of a 
feeling and generous temper, hardened by circumstances into 
this vein of cold and adamantine cruelty. 

Though he had never been known to relent, tears had been 
known to fall fast through the bars of his avantaille, as he re- 
pulsed the outstretched arms and rejected the passionate en- 
treaties of some lovely, innocent maiden, imploring death itself 
as a boon, so she might save her honor. 

At such times, it was affirmed — and they were of no unusual 
occurrence — when he seemed on the point of relenting, he 
needed only to clasp in his mailed fingers a long, heavy tress 
of female hair — once of the loveliest shade of dark brown, 
verging almost upon black, but now bleached by exposure to 
the summer sun and the wintry storm — which he wore among 
the black plumes of his casque, when he became on the instant 
cold, iron, and impenetrable, as the proof-harness which he 
wore ; and the words would come from his lips slow, stern, 



212 , the vassal's wife. 

irrevocable, speaking the miserable creature's doom, so that 
even she would plead no longer ! — 

"Away with her! away! For she, too, was beautiful, and 
innocent, and good ; and which of these availed her, that she 
should not perish ? Away with her, I say, and do your will 
with her ; but let me not look on her any more !" 

Up to this time, the insurrection had been confined to the 
northeast of France, and more especially to the Beauvoisis 
and the regions adjacent to the capital, the armed commons of 
which appeared ready to encourage and assist, if not openly to 
join them ; but, at the period when my tale commences, it began 
to spread like a conflagration, and rapidly extended itself in all 
directions. 

Auvergne still continued, however, free from disturbance, and 
the knights and nobles whose demesnes lay within that fair 
province went about their ordinary avocations and amusements, 
unmolested and unsuspicious of danger, without any more dis- 
play of military force than was usual in those dark and danger- 
ous times, and with no more than ordinary trains of feudal de- 
pendants and retainers. 

This, however, was now brought to a sudden and alarming 
conclusion by the occurrence of an incident so terrible and hid- 
eous in its character, that it struck a panic-terrorjnto every heart 
that heard tell of it, and that it still survives, though centuries 
have elapsed, as clear and distinct as if it had but just occurred, 
in the memories of the peasantry of Auvergne. 

It was a beautiful morning in the latter part of June, when 
the whole face of the country was overspread by a garb of the 
richest summer greenery, when the skies were glowing with 
perfect and cloudless azure, and when the atmosphere was per- 
fumed with the breath of flowers and vocal with the melody of 
birds. It was a morning when all nature seemed to be at peace, 
the bridal, as are old pock-words of the earth and sky — when 



A HAWKING-PARTY. 213 

even the angry passions of man, the great destroyer, seem to 
be at rest, and when it is difficult to believe in the existence 
or commission of any violence or wrong. 

It was on such a morning that a gay cavalcade of knights 
and ladies issued from the gates of the castle of Roche d'or, 
with a numerous train of half-armed retainers ; with grooms, 
and foresters, and falconers ; with hounds, gazehounds, and 
spaniels, fretting in their leashes ; and goss-hawks, jer-falcons, 
peregrines, and marlins, horded upon their wrists, or cast upon 
frames suspended by thongs about the waists of the varlets who 
carried them. 

At the head of this gallant company rode a finely-formed man 
of stately presence, and apparelled in the rich garments of a 
person of distinction in an age when every station and rank of 
life had its distinctive garb, and when the sumptuary laws were 
enforced with much strictness, rendering it highly penal for one 
class to assume the dress of the station next above it. Velvet, 
and rich furs, and ostrich-plumes, rustled and waved in the 
garb of this puissant noble, and many a gem of rare price flashed 
from the hilts of his weapons, and even from the accoutrements 
of his splendid Andalusian charger. On either hand of him 
rode a lady, beautiful both of them, and young, but in styles of 
beauty utterly dissimilar : for one was dark-browed and black- 
haired, with the complexion of a clear-skinned brunette, suffused 
with a rich, sunny color, and large, languid black eyes ; while 
the other had a skin as white as snow, with the slightest pos- 
sible tinge of rose on the soft, rounded cheeks — eyes of the 
hues of the dewy violet — and long, streaming tresses of warm, 
golden brown. 

In the dark-haired lady it was easy to trace a resemblance, 
of both outline and complexion, to the gentleman who rode be- 
tween them, and it would not have needed a very keen observer 
to discover at a glance that they were brother and sister. And 



214 the vassal's wife. 

such was the truth : for the personages were Raoul de Canillac, 
the marquis of Roche d'or ; Louise de Canillac, his lovely sis- 
ter ; and Clemente, his late-wedded wife, formerly Clemente 
Isaure de Saint Angely, who was the wonder of the country 
for beauty, and its idol for her charity and goodness. 

Next this lady, on the outer side, there rode one who was as 
much and as deservedly detested by the neighborhood as she 
was admired and beloved — a strange compound of all the foul 
and hideous vices which can render humanity detestable, unre- 
deemed by one solitary virtue, if bravery be excepted, which 
was a quality so general and necessary — being, in fact, almost 
unavoidable, from the peculiar nature of chivalrous institutions 
— that it must be regarded rather as a virtue of the age and 
military caste of nobles, than of this or that individual. He had 
earned himself a fearful reputation, and how well he had de- 
served no one could doubt who looked upon his face, all scathed 
and furrowed by the lines stamped on it by habitual indulgence 
in every hateful vice, habitual surrender to every fiery passion. 
A cousin of the marquis, and his nearest male relative, he had 
done much to deprave and corrupt his mind ; and though an 
accomplished and gallant gentleman, honorable, and affable, and 
companionable to his own caste, a fond husband, a kind brother, 
and a warm friend, he had succeeded in rendering him as cruel 
and unmerciful an oppressor of all beneath him as a feudal 
seigneur in those days could be, if his power was equalled by 
his will to do evil. He also was Canillac, the reproach and 
disgrace of an old and noble name, and was known far and wide, 
for his furious and frantic crimes — which seemed, so perfectly 
unprovoked were they at times and devoid of meaning, to arise 
from actual insanity — by the soubriquet of Canillac lejbu, the 
madman — a title of which, so shameless was he in his infa- 
mous renown, he actually appeared to glory, signing it as a por- 
tion of his name, or an honorable title of distinction. 



SIR LOUIS DE MONTFAUCON. 215 

On the other side, next to Louise de Roche d'or, rode a tall 
and handsome youth, wearing the belt and spurs of knighthood, 
and gazing at times into the face of the beautiful girl with 
eyes full of deep, ardent affection, and speaking to her in those 
low, earnest tones which denote so certainly the existence of 
strong and pervading interest and affection. The knight, al- 
ready famous far beyond his years, for deeds of dauntless dar- 
ing, was Sir Louis de Montfaucon, a puissant baron of Auvergne, 
whose bands marched with those of Castel de Roche d'or, and 
the affianced husband of the young and fair Louise. Pages and 
equerries, with the usual attendants, followed, and the courtyard 
rang and re-echoed with the clang of hoofs, the neighing of 
coursers, the deep baying of the bloodhounds, and the screams 
of the frightened falcons. 

They issued from the castle-gates ; wound through the open 
park, and the dense woodland chase beyond it ; swept down a 
steep descent into a broad and fertile valley, watered by a great, 
clear river, which they crossed by a wooden bridge : traversed 
the narrow, sandy street of the village of Castel de Roche d'or, 
and, turning off short to the right, entered a little dell, through 
which a bright, clear rivulet murmured over its pebbly bed, on 
its way to join the larger river in the valley. 

The lower part of this little dell was principally open pastu- 
rage, dotted here and there with brakes and solitary bushes of 
hawthorn ; and along the margin of the rivulet there ran a fringe 
of willow and alder thickets, but a little higher up it degener- 
ated into a mere gorge or ravine, thickly overshadowed by the 
gnarled arms and dense, verduous umbrage of huge, immemo- 
rial oaks, the outskirts and advanced guard, as it were, of a vast 
oak-forest, which covered leagues on leagues of rough and 
broken country, to which this dell formed the readiest means 
of access. 

Just in the jaws of this pass, overhung by the oaks, stood a 



216 the vassal's wife. 

small, gray, rustic chapel, supported on four clustered columns, 
with groined arches intersecting each other resting upon them, 
a small, arched canopy containing a bell on the summit of its 
steep, slated roof, and a low-browed door, with a round arch, 
decorated with the wolf-toothed carvings of the earliest Norman 
style. Immediately in front of the door, the little rivulet which 
watered the dell burst out of the other in a strong, gushing 
spring, which had been blessed by some saint of old, and, being 
surmounted by a vaulted canopy, was held to be peculiarly holy 
by the superstitious rustics of the region. 

This lovely spot, however, peaceful as it showed, and calm in 
its tranquil and sequestered security, had been the scene, some 
two or three years before, of a fearful and cruel crime : had 
witnessed the violent, seizure of a sweet, innocent, and rarely 
lovely bride, fresh from the marriage benediction, by this very 
Raoul de Canillac ; and the girl had escaped pollution only by 
self-immolation. 

It was a cursed deed — and cursed was the vengeance it 
provoked ! 

Just as the company I have described wheeled into the lower 
end of the little dell, conversing joyously together, and enjoy- 
ing the sweet influences of the season and the place, they were 
saluted by the long, keen blast of a bugle, well and clearly wind- 
ed, in that peculiarly note known at that period as the mort, 
being the call that announced the death of the game, whatever 
it was, which might be the object of pursuit. 

This call came from the oaks above the chapel, although no 
performer was seen, nor was there any baying of hounds or 
clamor of hunters, such as usually accompanies the termination 
of a chase. 

There was no privilege at that time more highly regarded by 
the nobles than the rights of the chase, nor was there any crime 
more jealously pursued and punished more vindictively than the 



SUDDEN* CHANGE OF SCENE. 217 

infraction of the forest-laws ; so much so, indeed, that the death 
of a stag or wild-boar by unlicensed hands was visited with a 
far deeper meed of vengeance than the murder of a man ! 

It was with a face, therefore, inflamed by the fiercest ire, a 
flashing eye, and a knitted brow, that Raoul de Canillac un- 
sheathed his sword, and spurred his horse into a gallop, calling 
upon his men with a vehement and angry oath to follow him, 
for there were of a surety villeyns in the wood slaughtering the 
deer. 

The ladies of the party checked their horses on the instant 
in affright, while the men rushed forward in confusion, drawing 
their weapons, and casting loose the hounds and hawks which 
they had led or carried, in order to wield their arms with more 
advantage ; and between the shouts of the feudal retainers, the 
deep baying of the released bloodhounds, and the wild screams 
of the hawks, all that calm and peaceful solitude was trans- 
formed on the instant into a scene of the wildest turmoil and 
confusion. At this moment, just as the lord of Roche d'or 
spurred his horse up the slight eminence toward the little 
church, a man of great height and powerful frame stepped 
slowly forward from among the oaks, clad in a full suit of 
knightly armor, of plain, unornamented black steel, with no de- 
vice or bearing on his shield, and no crest on his casque, which 
was overshadowed by an immense plume of black ostrich-feath- 
ers. He had a two-handed sword slung across his shoulders, 
and carried a ponderous battle-axe in his right hand. 

Startled by this unexpected apparition, Raoul de Canillac 
checked his horse suddenly, exclaiming : " Treason ! fy ! trea- 
son ! Ride, ladies, for your lives ! — ride ! ride !" 

But this warning came too late : for, simultaneously with the 

appearance of the leader, above five hundred crossbow-men and 

lancers poured out from the wood on either flank, with their 

weapons ready ; and a body of fifty or sixty mounted men-at- 

10 



218 the vassal's wife. 

arms drew out from behind a spur of the hills at the entrance 
of the gorge, and effectually cut off their retreat. Entirely sur- 
rounded, escape was impossible, and resistance hopeless, so 
great was the numerical superiority of the enemy, and so per- 
fectly were they armed and accoutred for offence and defence, 
while the retainers of the lords had no defensive arms what- 
ever, nor any weapons except their swords and hunting-staves, 
and a few bows and arbalasts. 

The leader of the Jacquerie — for it needed not a second 
glance to inform Raoul de Canillac into whose hands he had 
fallen — waved his axe on high as a signal, and instantly a sin- 
gle crossbow was discharged ; and the bolt, striking the horse 
of the seigneur full in the centre of the chest, he went down on 
the instant : and before he could recover his feet, the marquis 
was seized by a dozen stout, hands, and bound securely hand 
and foot with stout hempen cords. 

On perceiving this, the elder nobleman, Canillac the mad- 
man, with the desperate and reckless fury for which he was so 
conspicuous, dashed forward, sword in hand, with his paternal 
war-cry, followed by a dozen or two of the armed servitors, as 
if to rescue his kinsman. Perhaps he perceived the hopeless- 
ness of their condition, and preferred selling his life dearly to 
surrendering only to be slaughtered in cold blood : and if such 
was his notion, he was not all unwise. 

Again the battle-axe was waved, and this time a close and 
well-aimed volley followed, the bolts taking effect fatally on the 
bodies of the old lord and several of his followers, three of 
whom with their chief were slain outright, while several others 
staggered back more or less severely wounded. 

With this, all resistance ended, the men throwing down their 
arms, and crying for quarter, which — as they were all, with 
the exception of two pages and an esquire, men of low birth — 
was granted, and they were discharged without further condi- 



the vassal's vengeance. 219 

tion. To those of gentle origin, however, no such clemency- 
was extended. The pages and esquire were stripped of their 
costly garb, and immediately hanged up by the necks from the 
oak-trees, together with the young knight affianced to Made- 
moiselle Roche d'or, in spite of the entreaties and supplications 
of his beautiful betrothed. 

The ladies were then compelled to dismount, and their arms 
being bound behind their backs, were tied with ropes to the 
tails of their captors' horses ; and, together with Raoul de Can- 
iliac, whose feet were now released from their fetters, were 
dragged in painful and disgraceful procession back to the gates 
of the feudal fortalice from which they had so lately issued free 
and happy ! 

On the first summons of the leader of the Jacques — seeing 
their lord and the ladies captive, weak in numbers, dispirited, 
and without a leader — the garrison immediately surrendered : 
the portcullis was drawn up, the pontlevis lowered, and, with 
their wretched prisoners, the fierce marauders entered the walls, 
which, by their massive strength, might otherwise have long 
defied them. 

Meantime, not one word had been uttered by the leader of 
the party, who indicated his demands to his men merely by the 
wafture of his hand or the gesture of his head, which were 
promptly understood and implicitly obeyed. In compliance 
with a sign, the prisoners were now led after him into their 
own magnificent abode, and carried through long, winding pas- 
sages, and up an almost interminable stairway, to an apartment 
in the summit of a huge, square tower, overlooking the castle- 
moat, from a battlemented balcony, at the height of above a 
hundred feet. A dread foreboding shook the breast of Raoul 
de Canillac, as he was brought into that chamber, the scene of 
his outrageous cruelty to the lovely Marguerite in past years, 
and now to be the scene of its as cruel retribution. 



220 the vassal's wife. 

The black warrior raised the vizor of his helmet, and gazed 
into the face of his former lord with the fixed, resolute, deter- 
mined scowl of Maurice Champrest, while the bad, bold oppres- 
sor shook before his captor with a visible, convulsive air. 

"Ay! tremble, murderer and tyrant — tremble!" thundered 
the fierce avenger ; " tremble ! for thy time is at hand : and, 
Marguerite — lovely and beloved Marguerite — right royally 
shall thou be now avenged ! Away with these ! away with 
them ! their doom is spoken !" 

And a scene of more than fiendish cruelty and violence en- 
sued. Those innocent and lovely women, subjected to the last 
dishonor before the eyes of the husband and brother — tortured 
with merciless ingenuity when their violators were satiate of 
their beauties — and then cast headlong from the bartizan into 
the moat which had received the corpse of the Vassal's Wife ! 
Raoul de Canillac, scourged till the flesh was literally torn from 
his bones, was plunged headlong after them ! 

Such was the Vassal's Vengeance! — and when he fell, 
shortly afterward, before the walls of Meaux, by the lance of 
the renowned Captal de Buch, his last words were : " I care 
not — I care not to live longer. My task was ended, my race 
won, when thou wert avenged, Marguerite — Marguerite !" and 
he perished with her name on his tongue. His crimes were 
great, but was not his temptation greater ? Pray we, that we 
be not tempted ! 



TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION 

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZE. 



PART I. 

There was a mighty stir in the streets of Paris, as Paris's 
streets were in the olden time. A dense and eager mob had 
taken possession, at an early hour of the day, of all the environs 
of the Bastile, and lined the way which led thence to the Place 
de Greve in solid and almost impenetrable masses. 

People of all conditions were there, except the very highest ; 
but the great majority of the concourse was composed of the 
low populace, and the smaller bourgeoisie. Multitudes of 
women were there, too, from the girl of sixteen to the beldam 
of sixty, nor had mothers been ashamed to bring their infants 
in their arms into that loud and tumultuous assemblage. 

Loud it was and tumultuous, as all great multitudes are, un- 
less they are convened by purposes too resolutely dark and 
solemn to find any vent in noise. When that is the case, let 
rulers beware, for peril is at hand — perhaps the beginning of 
the end. 

But this Parisian mob, although long before this period it 
had learned the use of barricades, though noisy, turbulent, and 
sometimes even violent in the demonstrations of its impatience, 
was anything but angry or excited. 



222 true love's devotion. 

On the contrary, it seemed to be on the very tip-toe of pleas- 
urable expectation, and from the somewhat frequent allusions 
to notre bon rot, which circulated among the better order of 
spectators, it would appear that the government of the Fifteenth 
Louis was for the moment in unusually good odor with the 
good folks of the metropolis. 

What was the spectacle to which they were looking forward 
with so much glee — which had brought forth young delicate 
girls, and tender mothers, into the streets at so early an hour — 
which, as the day advanced toward ten o'clock of the morning, 
was tempting forth laced cloaks, and rapiers, and plumed hats, 
and here and there, in the cumbrous carriages of the day, the 
proud and luxurious ladies of the gay metropolis ? 

One glance toward the centre of the Place de Greve was 
sufficient to inform the dullest, for there uprose, black, grisly, 
horrible, a tall stout pile of some thirty feet in height, with a 
huge wheel affixed horizontally to the summit. 

Around this hideous instrument of torture was raised a scaf- 
fold hung with black cloth, and strewd with saw-dust, for the 
convenience of the executioners, about three feet lower than 
the wheel which surmounted it. 

Around this frightful apparatus were drawn up two compa- 
nies of the French guard, forming a large hollow-square facing 
outward, with muskets loaded, and bayonets fixed, as if they 
apprehended an attempt at rescue, although from the demeanor 
of the people, nothing appeared at that time to be further from 
their thoughts than anything of the kind. 

Above was the executioner-in-chief, with two grim, truculent- 
looking assistants, making preparations for the fearful operation 
they were about to perform, or leaning indolently on the instru- 
ments of slaughter. 

By and by, as the day wore onward, and the concourse kept 
still increasing both in numbers and in the respectability of 



THE PLACE DE GREVE. 223 

those who composed it, something of irritation began to show 
itself, mingled with the eagerness and expectation of the popu- 
lace, and from some murmurs, which ran from time to time 
through their ranks, it would seem that they apprehended the 
escape of their victim. 

By this time the windows of all the houses which overlooked 
the precincts of that fatal square on which so much of noble 
blood has been shed through so many ages, were occupied by 
persons of both sexes, all of the middle, and some even of the 
upper classes, as eager to behold the frightful and disgusting 
scene, which was about to ensue, as the mere rabble in the 
open streets below. 

The same thing was manifest along the whole line of the 
thoroughfare by which the fatal procession would advance, with 
this difference alone, that many of the houses in that quarter 
belonging to the high nobility, and all with few exceptions 
being the dwellings of opulent persons, the windows, instead 
of being let like seats at the opera, to any who would pay the 
price, were occupied by the inhabitants, coming and going 
from their ordinary avocations to look out upon the noisy throng, 
when any louder outbreak of voices called their attention to the 
busy scene. 

Among the latter, in a large and splendid mansion, not far 
from the Porte St. Antoine, and commanding a direct view of 
the Place de la Bastille, with its esplanade, drawbridge, and 
principal entrance, a group was collected at one of the win- 
dows, nearly overlooking the gate itself, which seemed to take 
the liveliest interest in the proceedings of the day, although 
that interest was entirely unmixed with anything like the bru- 
tal expectation, and morbid love of horrible excitement which 
characterized the temper of the multitude. 

The most prominent persons of this group was a singularly 
noble-looking man, fast verging to his fiftieth year, if he had 



224 true love's devotion. 

not yet attained it. His countenance, though resolute and firm, 
with a clear, piercing eye, lighted up at times, for a moment, 
by a quick, fiery flash, was calm, benevolent, and pensive in 
its ordinary mood, rather than energetical or active. Yet it 
was easy to perceive that the mind, which informed it, was of 
the highest capacity both of intellect and imagination. 

The figure and carriage of this gentleman would have suffi- 
ciently indicated that, at some period of his life he had borne 
arms and led the life of a camp — which, indeed, at that day 
was only to say that he was a nobleman of France — but a long 
scar on his right brow, a little way above the eye, losing itself 
among the thick locks of his fine waving hair, and a small 
round cicatrix in the centre of his cheek, showing where a 
pistol ball had found entrance, proved that he had been where 
blows were falling thickest, and that he had not spared his own 
person in the melee. 

His dress was very rich, according to the fashion of the day, 
though perhaps a fastidious eye might have objected that it 
partook somewhat of the past mode of the regency, which had 
just been brought to a conclusion as my tale commences, by the 
resignation of the witty and licentious Philip of Orleans. 

If, however, this fine-looking gentleman was the most prom- 
inent, he certainly was not the most interesting person of the 
company, which consisted, besides himself, of an ecclesiastic 
of high rank in the French church, a lady, now somewhat ad- 
vanced in years, but showing the remains of beauty which, in 
its prime, must have been extraordinary, and of a boy in his 
fifteenth or sixteenth year. 

For notwithstanding the eminent distinction, and high intel- 
lect of the elder nobleman, the dignity of the abbe, not unsup- 
ported by all which men look for as the outward and visible 
signs of that dignity, and the grace and beauty of the lady, it 



THE COUNT DE ST. RENAN's SON. 225 

was upon the boy alone that the eye of every spectator would 
have dwelt, from the instant of its first discovering him. 

He was tall of his age, and very finely made, of proportions 
which gave promise of exceeding strength when he should ar- 
rive at maturity, but strength uncoupled to anything of weight 
or clumsiness. He was unusually free, even at this early 
period, from that heavy and ungraceful redundance of flesh 
which not unfrequently is the forerunner of athletic power in 
boys just bursting into manhood ; for he was already as con- 
spicuous for the thinness of his flanks, and the shapely hollow 
of his back, as for the depth and roundness of his chest, the 
breadth of his shoulders, and the symmetry of his limbs. 

His head was well set on, and his whole bearing was that 
of one who had learned ease, and grace, and freedom, combined 
with dignity of carriage, in no school of practice and manner- 
ism, but from the example of those with whom he had been 
brought up, and by familiar intercourse from his cradle upward 
with the high-born and gently nurtured of the land. 

His long rich chestnut hair fell down in natural masses un- 
disfigured as yet by the hideous art of the court hair-dresser, 
on either side his fine broad forehead, and curled, untortured 
by the crisping-irons, over the collar of his velvet jerkin. His 
eyes were large and very clear, of the deepest shade of blue, 
with dark lashes, yet full of strong, tranquil light. All his fea- 
tures were regular and shapely, but it was not so much in the 
beauty of their form, or in the harmony of their coloring, that 
the attractiveness of his aspect consisted, as in the peculiarity 
and power of his expression. 

For a boy of his age, the pensiveness and composure of that 
expression were indeed almost unnatural, and they combined 
with a calm firmness and immobility of feature, which prom- 
ised, I know not what of resolution and tenacity of purpose. 
It was not gravity, much less sternness, or sadness, that lent 

10* 



226 true love's devotion. 

so powerful an expression to that young face ; nor was there a 
single line which indicated coldness or hardness of heart, or 
which would have led to a suspicion that he had been schooled 
by those hard monitors, suffering and sorrow. No, it was pure 
thoughtfulness, and that of the highest and most intellectual 
order, which characterized the boy's expression. 

Yet, though it was so thoughtful, there was nothing in the 
aspect whence to forebode a want of the more masculine quali- 
fications. It was the thoughtfulness of a worker, not of a 
dreamer — the thoughtfulness which prepares, not unfits a man 
for action. If the powers portrayed in that boy's countenance 
were not deceptive to the last degree, high qualities were within 
and a high destiny before him. 

But who, from the foreshowing and the bloom of sixteen 
years, may augur of the finish and the fruit of the threescore- 
and-ten, which are the sum of human toil and sorrow ? 

It was now nearly noon, when the outer drawbridge of the 
Bastile was lowered, and its gate opened ; and forth rode, two 
abreast, a troop of the musquetaires or lifeguard, in the bright 
steel casques and cuirases, with the musquetoons, from which 
they derived their name, unslung and ready for action. As 
they issued into the wider space beyond the bridge, the troop- 
ers formed themselves rapidly into a sort of hollow column, the 
front of which, some eight file deep, occupied the whole width 
of the street, two files in close order composing each flank, and 
leaving an open space in the centre completely surrounded by 
the horsemen. 

Into this space, without a. moment's delay, there was driven 
a low, black cart, or hurdle as it was technically called, of the 
rudest construction, drawn by four powerful black horses — a 
savage-faced official guiding them by the ropes which supplied 
the place of reins. On this ill-omened vehicle there stood 
three persons — the prisoner, and two of the armed wardens of 



THE CONDEMNED NOBLEMAN. 227 

the Bastile — the former ironed very heavily, and the latter 
bristling with offensive weapons. 

Immediately in the rear of this car followed another troop of 
the lifeguard, which closed up in the densest and most serried 
order around and behind the victim of the law, so as to render 
any attempt at rescue useless. 

The person, to secure whose punishment so strong a military 
force had been produced, and to witness whose execution so 
vast a multitude was collected, was a tall, noble-looking man 
of forty or forty-five years, dressed in a rich mourning-habit 
of the day, but wearing neither hat nor mantle. His dark hair, 
mixed at intervals with thin lines of silver, was cut short behind, 
contrary to the usage of the times, and his neck was bare, the 
collar of his superbly-laced shirt being folded broadly back over 
the cape of his pourpoint. 

His face was very pale, and his complexion being naturally 
of the darkest, the hue of his flesh, from which all the healthful 
blood had receded, was strangely livid and unnatural in its ap- 
pearance. Still it did not seem that it was fear which had 
blanched his cheeks, and stolen all the color from his com- 
pressed lip, for his eye was full of a fierce, scornful light, and 
all his features were set and steady with an expression of the 
calmest and most iron resolution. 

As the fatal vehicle which bore him made its appearance on 
the esplanade without the gates of the prison, a deep hum of 
satisfaction ran through the assembled concourse, rising and 
deepening gradually into a savage howl like that of a hungry 
tiger. 

Then, then blazed out the haughty spirit, the indomitable 
pride of the French noble ! Then shame, and fear, and death 
itself, which he was looking even now full in the face, were 
all forgotten, all absorbed, in his overwhelming scorn of the 
people ! 



228 

The blood rushed in a torrent to his brow, his eye seemed 
to lighten forth actual fire, as he raised his right hand aloft — 
loaded although it was with such a mass of iron as a Greek 
a'hlete might have shunned to lift — and shook it at the clamor- 
ous mob, with a glare of scorn and fury that showed how, had 
he been at liberty, he would have dealt with the revilers of his 
fallen state. 

" Sacre canaille /" he hissed through his hard-set teeth — 
" back to your gutters and your garbage ; or follow, if you can, 
in silence, and learn, if ye lack not courage to look on, how a 
man should die !" 

The reproof told : for, though at the contemptuous tone and 
fell insult of the first words, the clamor of the rabble-rout waxed 
wilder, there was so much true dignity in the last sentiment 
he uttered, and the fate to which he was going was so hideous, 
that a key was struck in the popular heart, and thenceforth the 
tone of the spectators was changed altogether. 

It was the exultation of the people over the downfall and dis- 
grace of a noble, that had found tongue in that savage concla- 
mation ; it was the apprehension that his dignity, and the inter- 
est of his great name, would win him pardon from the partial 
justice of the king, that had rendered them pitiless and savage : 
and now that their own cruel will was about to be gratified, as 
they beheld how dauntlessly the proud lord went to a death of 
torture, they were stricken with a sort of secret shame, and 
followed the dread train in sullen silence. 

As the black car rolled onward, the haughty criminal turned 
his eyes upward — perchance from a sentiment of pride, which 
rendered it painful to him to meet the gaze, whether pitiful or 
triumphant, of the Parisian populace ; and as he did so, it 
chanced that his glance fell on the group which I have de- 
scribed as assembled at the windows of a mansion which he 
knew well, and in which, in happier days, he had passed gay 



THE WINDOW-GROUP. 229 

and pleasant hours. Every eye of that group, with but one 
exception, was fixed upon himself, as he perceived on the in- 
stant ; the lady alone having turned her head away, as unable 
to look upon one in such a strait, whom she had known under 
circumstances so widely different. There was nothing, how- 
ever, in the gaze of all these earnest eyes that seemed to em- 
barrass, much less to offend, the prisoner. Deep interest, ear- 
nestness, perhaps horror, was expressed by one and all ; but 
that horror was not, nor in anywise partook of, the abhorrence 
which appeared to be the leading sentiment of the populace be- 
low. As he encountered their gaze, therefore, he drew himself 
up to his full height, and, laying his right hand upon his heart, 
bowed low and gracefully to the windows at which his friends 
of past days were assembled. 

The boy turned his eye quickly toward his father, as if to 
note what return he should make to that strange salutation. If 
it were so, he did not remain in doubt a moment, for that no- 
bleman bowed low and solemnly to his brother-peer with a very 
grave and sad aspect ; and even the ecclesiastic inclined his 
head courteously to the condemned criminal. 

The boy perhaps marvelled, for a look of bewilderment 
crossed his ingenuous features ; but it passed away in an in- 
stant, and, following the example of his seniors, he bent his 
ingenuous brow and sunny locks before the unhappy man, who 
never was again to interchange a salute with living mortal. 

It would seem that the recipient of that last act of courtesy 
was gratified beyond the expectation of those who offered it, for 
a faint flush stole over his livid features, from which the mo- 
mentary glow of indignation had now entirely faded, and a 
slight smile played upon his pallid lip, while a tear — the last 
he should ever shed — twinkled for an instant on his dark 
lashes. "True," he muttered to himself approvingly; "the 
nobles are true ever to their order !" . 



230 true love's devotion. 

The eyes of the mob likewise had been attracted to the group 
above, by what had passed, and at first it appeared as if they 
had taken umbrage at the sympathy showed to the criminal by 
his equals in rank ; for there was manifested a little inclination 
to break out again into a murmured shout, and some angry words 
were bandied about, reflecting on the pride and party spirit of 
the proud lords. 

But the inclination was checked instantly, before it had time 
to render itself audible, by a word which was circulated, no 
one knew whence or by whom, through the crowded ranks — 
" Hush ! hush ! it is the good lord of St. Renan !" And there- 
with every voice was hushed — so fickle is the fancy of a crowd 
— although it is very certain that four fifths of those present 
knew not nor had ever heard the name of St. Renan, nor had 
the slightest suspicion what claims he who bore it had on either 
their respect or forbearance. 

The death-train passed on its way, however, unmolested by 
any further show of temper on the part of the crowd ; and the 
crowd itself, following the progress of the hurdle to the place 
of execution, was soon out of sight of the windows occupied by 
the family of the count de St. Renan. 

" Alas ! unhappy Kerguelen !" exclaimed the count, with a 
deep and painful sigh, as the fearful procession was lost to sight 
in the distance. " He knows not yet half the bitterness of that 
which he has to undergo." 

The boy looked up into his father's face with an inquiring 
glance, which he answered at once, still in the same subdued 
and solemn voice which he had used from the first. 

" By the arrangement of his hair and dress I can see that 
he imagines he is to die as a nobleman, by the axe. May 
Heaven support him when he sees the disgraceful wheel." 

" You seem to pity the wretch, Louis," cried the lady, who 
had not hitherto spoken, nor even looked toward the criminal 



THE SELF-AVENGER. 231 

as he was passing by the windows — " and yet he was assuredly 
a most atrocious criminal. A cool, deliberate, cold-blooded 
poisoner ! Out upon it ! out upon it ! The wheel is fifty times 
too good for him !" 

" He was all that you say, Marie," replied her husband 
gravely ; " and yet I do pity him with all my heart, and grieve 
for him. I knew him well, though we have not met for many 
years, when we were both young, and there was no braver, no- 
bler, better man within the limits of fair France. I know, too, 
how he loved that woman, how he trusted that man — and then 
to be so betrayed ! It seems to me but yesterday that he led 
her to the altar, all tears of happiness, and soft maiden blushes. 
Poor Kerguelon ! he was sorely tried." 

" But still, my son, he was found wanting. Had he sub- 
mitted him as a Christian to the punishment the good God laid 
upon him — " 

" The world would have pronounced him a spiritless, dis- 
honored slave, father," said the count, answering the ecclesias- 
tic's speech before it was yet finished, " and gentlemen would 
have refused him the hand of fellowship." 

" Was he justified then, my father ?" asked the boy eagerly, 
who had been listening with eager attention to every word that 
had yet been spoken. " Do you think, then, that he was in 
the right ; that he could not do otherwise than to slay her ? I 
can understand that he was bound to kill the man who had 
basely wronged his honor — but a woman ! — a woman whom 
he had once loved too ! — that seems to me most horrible ; and 
the mode, by a slow poison ! living with her while it took 
effect ! eating at the same board with her ! sleeping by her 
side ! that seems even more than horrible, it was cowardly !" 

" God forbid, my son," replied the elder nobleman, " that I 
should say any man was justified who had murdered another 
in cold blood ; especially, as you have said, a woman, and by a 



232 true love's devotion. 

method so terrible as poison. I only mean exactly what I 
said, that he was tried very fearfully, and that under such trial 
the best and wisest of us here below can not say how he would 
act himself. Moreover, it would seem, that mistaken as he 
was perhaps in the course which he seems to have imagined 
that honor demanded at his hands, he was more mistaken in 
the mode which he took of accomplishing his scheme of ven- 
geance. It was made very evident upon his trial that he did 
nothing, even to that wretched traitress, in rage or revenge, 
but all as he thought in honor. He chose a drug which con- 
sumed her by a mild and gradual decay, without suffering or 
spasm ; he gave her time for repentance, nay, it is clearly 
proved that he convinced her of her sin, reconciled her to the 
part he had taken in her death, and exchanged forgiveness with 
her before she passed away. I do not think myself that to 
commit a crime himself can clear one from dishonor cast upon 
him by another's act, but at the same time I can not look upon 
Kerguelen's guilt as of that brutal and felonious nature which 
calls for such a punishment as this — to be broken alive on the 
wheel, like a hired stabber — much less can I assent to the 
stigma which is attached to him on all sides, while that base, 
low-lived, treacherous, cogging miscreant, who fell too honor- 
ably by his honorable sword, meets pity — God defend us from 
such justice and sympathy ! — and is entombed with tears and 
honors, while the avenger is crushed, living, out of the very 
shape of humanity by the hands of the common hangman." 

The churchman's lips moved for a moment, as if he were 
about to speak in reply to the false doctrines which he heard 
enunciated by that upright and honorable man, and good father, 
but, ere he spoke, he reflected that those doctrines were held 
at that time, throughout Christian Europe, unquestioned, and 
confirmed by prejudice and pride beyond all the power of ar- 
gument or of religion to set them aside, or invalidate them. 



THE CODE OF CHIVALRY. 233 

The law of chivalry, sterner and more inflexible than that Mo- 
saic code requiring an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, 
which demanded a human life as the sacrifice for every rash 
word, for every wrongful action, was the law paramount of 
every civilized land in that day, and in France perhaps most 
of all lands, as standing foremost in what was then deemed 
civilization. And the abbe well knew that discussion of this 
point would only tend to bring out the opinions of the count 
de St. Renan, in favor of the sanguinary code of honor, more 
decidedly, and consequently to confirm the mind of the young 
man more effectually in what he believed himself to be a fatal 
error. 

The young man, who was evidently very deeply interested 
in the matter of the conversation, had devoured every word of 
his father, as if he had been listening to the oracles of a God ; 
and, when he ceased, after a pause of some seconds, during 
which he was pondering very deeply on that which he had 
heard, he raised his intelligent face and said in an earnest 
voice — 

" I see, my father, all that you have alleged in palliation of 
the count's crime, and I fully understand you — though I still 
think it the most terrible thing I ever have heard tell of. But 
I do not perfectly comprehend wherefore you ransack our lan- 
guage of all the deepest terms of contempt which to heap upon 
the head of the chevalier de la Rochederrien ? He was the 
count's sworn friend, she was the count's wedded wife ; they 
both were forsworn and false, and both betrayed him. But in 
what was the chevalier's fault the greater or the viler ?" 

Those were strange days, in which such a subject could 
have been discussed between two wise and virtuous parents 
and a son, whom it was their chiefest aim in life to bring up to 
be a good and honorable man — that son, too, barely more than 
a boy in years and understanding. But the morality of those 



234 true love's devotion. 

times was coarser and harder, and, if there was no more real 
vice, there was far less superficial delicacy in the manners of 
society, and the relations between men and women, than there 
is now-a-days. 

Perhaps the course lies midway ; for certainly if there was 
much coarseness then, there is much cant and much squeam- 
ishness now, which could be excellently well dispensed with. 

Beside this, boys were brought into the great world much 
earlier at that period, and were made men of at an age when 
they would have been learning Greek and Latin, had their 
birth been postponed by a single century. 

Then, at fifteen, they held commissions, and carried colors 
in the battle's front, and were initiated into all the license of 
the court, the camp, and the forum. 

So it came that the discussion of a subject such as that 
which I have described, was very naturally introduced even 
between parents and a beloved and only son by the circumstan- 
ces of the day. Morals, as regards the matrimonial contract, 
and the intercourse between the sexes, have at all times been 
lower and far less rigid among the French, than in nations of 
northern origin ; and never at any period of the world was the 
morality of any country, in this respect, at so low an ebb as 
was France under the reign of the Fifteenth Louis. 

The count de St. Renan replied, therefore, to his son with 
as little restraint as if he had been his equal in age, and equally 
acquainted with the customs and vices of the world, although 
intrigue and crime were the topics of which he had to treat. 

" It is quite true, Raoul," replied the count, " that so far as 
the unhappy lord of Kerguelen was concerned, the guilt of the 
chevalier de la Rochederrien was, as you say, no deeper, per- 
haps less deep than that of the miserable lady. He was, in- 
deed, bound to Kerguelen by every tie of friendship and honor ; 
he had been aided by his purse, backed by his sword, nay, I 



BASENESS AND INGRATITUDE. 235 

have heard and believe, that he owed his life to him. Yet for 
all that he seduced his wife ; and to make it worse, if worse it 
could be, Kerguelen had married her from the strongest affec- 
tion, and till the chevalier brought misery, and dishonor, and 
death upon them, there was no wedded couple in all France so 
virtuous or so happy." 

" Indeed, sir !" replied Raoul, in tones of great emotion, 
staring with his large, dark eyes as if some strange sight had 
presented itself to him on a sudden. 

" I know well, Raoul, and if you have not heard it yet, you 
will soon do so, when you begin to mingle with men, that there 
are those in society, those whom the world regards, moreover, 
as honorable men, who affect to say that he who loves a wo- 
man, whether lawfully or sinfully, is at once absolved from all 
considerations except how he most easily may win — or in other 
words — ruin her; and consequently such men would speak 
slightly of the chevalier's conduct toward his friend, Kergue- 
len, and affect to regard it as a matter of course, and a mere 
affair of gallantry ! But I trust you will remember this, my 
son, that there is nothing gallant, nor can be, in lying, or deceit, 
or treachery of any kind. And further, that to look with eyes 
of passion on the wife of a friend, is in itself both a crime, and 
an act of deliberate dishonor." 

" I should not have supposed, sir," replied the boy, blushing- 
very deeply, partly it might be from the nature of the subject 
under discussion, and partly from the strength of his emotions, 
" that any cavalier could have regarded it otherwise. It seems 
to me that to betray a friend's honor is a far blacker thing than 
to betray his life — and surely no man with one pretension to 
honor would attempt to justify that." 

" I am happy to see, Raoul, that you think so correctly on 
this point. Hold to your creed, my dear boy, for there are 
who shall try ere long to shake it. But be sure that it is the 



236 TRUE LOVE S DEVOTION. 

creed of honor. But, although I think La Rochederrien dis- 
graced himself even in this, it was not for this only that I 
termed him, as I deem him, the very vilest and most infamous 
of mankind. For when he had led that poor lady into sin ; 
when she had surrendered herself up wholly to his honor ; 
when she had placed the greatest trust — although a guilty 
trust, I admit — in his faith and integrity that one human being 
can place in another, the base dog betrayed her. He boasted 
of her weakness, of Kerguelen's dishonor, of his own infamy." 

" And did not they to whom he boasted of it," exclaimed the 
noble boy, his face flushing fiery red with excitement and in- 
dignation, " spurn him at once from their presence, as a thing 
unworthy and beyond the pale of law." 

" No, Raoul, they laughed at him, applauded his gallant suc- 
cess, and jeered at the lord of Kerguelen." 

" Great heaven ! and these were gentlemen !" 

" They were called such, at least ; gentlemen by name and 
descent they were assuredly, but as surely not right gentlemen 
at heart. Many of them, however, in cooler moments, spoke 
of the traitor and the braggart with the contempt and disgust 
he merited. Some friend of Kerguelen's heard what had 
passed, and deemed it his duty to inform him. The most un- 
happy husband called the seducer to the field, wounded him 
mortally, and — to increase yet more his infamy — even in the 
agony of death the slave confessed the whole, and craved for- 
giveness like a dog. Confessed the woman's crime — you mark 
me, Raoul ! — had he died mute, or died even with a falsehood 
in his mouth, as I think he was bound to do in such extremity, 
affirming her innocence with his last breath, he had saved her, 
and perhaps spared her wretched lord the misery of knowing 
certainly the depth of his dishonor." 

The boy pondered for a moment or two without making any 
answer ; and although he was evidently not altogether satisfied, 



AN INTRICATE QUESTION. 237 

probably would not have again spoken, had not his father, who 
read what was passing in his mind, asked him what it was that 
he desired to know further. 

Raoul smiled at perceiving how completely his father under- 
stood him, and then said at once, without pause or hesitation : — 

" I understand you to say, sir, that you thought the wretched 
man of whom we spoke was bound, under the extremity in 
which he stood, to die with a falsehood in his mouth. Can a 
gentleman ever be justified in saying the thing that is not? 
Much more, can it be his bounden duty to do so ?" 

" Unquestionably, as a rule of general conduct, he can not. 
Truth is the soul of honor ; and without truth, honor can not 
exist. But this is a most intricate and tangled question. It 
never can arise without presupposing the commission of one 
guilty act — one act which no good or truly moral man would 
commit at all. It is, therefore, scarcely worth our while to 
examine it. But I do say, on my deliberate and grave opinion, 
that if a woman, previously innocent and pure, have sacrificed 
her honor to a man, that man is bound to sacrifice everything — 
his life without a question, and I think his truth also — in order 
to preserve her character, so far as he can, unscathed. But 
we will speak no more of this ; it is an odious subject, and one 
of which I trust you, Raoul, will never have the sad occasion 
to consider." 

" Oh, never, father, never I !" cried the ingenuous boy ; " I 
must first lose my senses, and become a madman." 

"All men are madmen, Raoul," said the churchman — who 
stood in the relation of maternal uncle to the youth — "who 
suffer their passions to have the mastery of them. You must 
learn, therefore, to be their tyrant ; for if you be not, be well 
assured that that they will be yours — and merciless tyrants 
they are to the wretches who become their subjects." 

" I will remember what you say, sir," answered the boy, 



238 true love's devotion. 

" and, indeed, I am not like to forget it, for altogether this is 
the saddest day I ever have passed ; and this is the most hor- 
rible and appalling story that I have ever heard told. It was 
but just that the lord of Kerguelen should die, for he did a mur- 
der ; and since the law punishes that in a peasant, it must do 
so likewise with a noble. But to break him upon the wheel ! 
— it is atrocious ! I should have thought all the nobles of the 
land would have applied to the king to spare him that horror." 

" Many of them did apply, Raoul ; but the king, or his min- 
isters in his name, made answer that during the regency the 
count Horn was broken on the wheel for murder, and therefore 
that to behead the lord of Kerguelen for the same offence, would 
be to admit that the count was wrongfully condemned." 

" Out on it ! out on it ! what sophistry ! Count Horn mur- 
dered a banker, like a common thief, for his gold ; and this un- 
happy lord hath done the deed for which he must suffer in a 
mistaken sense of honor, and with all tenderness compatible 
with such a deed. There is nothing similar or parallel in the 
two cases ; and if there were, what signifies it now to Count 
Horn, whether he were condemned rightfully or not ? Are these 
men heathen, that they would offer a victim to the offended 
manes of the dead ? But is there no hope, my father, that his 
sentence may be commuted ?" 

" None whatever. Let us trust, therefore, that he has died 
penitent, and that his sufferings are already over ; and let us 
pray, ere we lay us down to sleep, that his sins may be forgiven 
to him, and that his soul may have rest." 

"Amen!" replied the boy, solemnly, at the same moment 
that the ecclesiastic repeated the same word — though he did 
so, as it would seem, less from the heart, and more as a matter 
of course. 

Nothing further was said on that subject, and in truth the 
conversation ceased altogether. A gloom was cast over the 



A CHANGE OF SUBJECT. 239 

spirits of all present, both by the imagination of the horrors 
which were in progress at that very moment, and by the recol- 
lection of the preceding enormities of which this was but the 
consummation ; but the young viscount Raoul was so completely 
engrossed by the deep thoughts which that conversation had 
awakened in his mind, that his father, who was a very close 
observer, and correct judge of human nature, almost regretted 
that he had spoken, and determined, if possible, to divert him 
from the gloomy revery into which he had fallen. 

" Viscount," said he, after a silence which had endured now 
for many minutes, " when did you last wait upon Mademoiselle 
Melanie d'Argenson ?" 

Raoul's eyes brightened at the name, and again the bright 
blush, which I noticed before, crossed his ingenuous features ; 
but this time it was pleasure, not embarrassment, which col- 
ored his young face so vividly. 

"I called yesterday, sir," he answered, "but she was abroad 
with the countess, her mother. In truth, I have not seen her 
since Friday last." 

" Why, that is an age, Raoul ! Are you not dying to see her 
again by this time ? At your age, I was far more gallant." 

" With your permission, sir, I will go now and make my 
compliments to her." 

" Not only my permission, Raoul, but my advice to make 
your best haste thither. If you go straightways, you will be 
sure to find her at home, for the ladies are sure not to have 
ventured abroad with all this uproar in the streets. Take Mar- 
tin the equerry with you, and three of the grooms. What will 
you ride — the new Barb I bought for you last week! Yes! 
as well him as any ; and, hark you, boy, tell them to send 
Martin to me first : I will speak to him while you are beautifying 
yourself to please the beaux yeux of Mademoiselle Melanie." 

"I am not sure that you are doing wisely, Louis," said the 



240 true love's devotiox. 

lady — as her son left the saloon, her eye following him wist- 
fully — "in bringing Raoul up as you are doing." 

" Nor I, Marie," replied her husband, gravely ; " we poor, 
blind mortals can not be sure of anything, least of all of any- 
thing the ends of which are incalculably distant. But in what 
particular do you doubt the wisdom of my method V 

" In talking to him as you do, as though he were a man al- 
ready ; in opening his eyes so widely to the sins and vices of 
the world ; in discussing questions with him such as those you 
spoke of with him but now. He is a mere boy, you will re- 
member, to hear tell of such things !" 

" Boys hear of such things early enough, I assure you — far 
earlier than you ladies would deem possible. For the rest, he 
must hear of them one day ; and I think it quite as well that 
he should hear of them, since hear he must, with the comments 
of an old man, and that old man his best friend, than find them 
out by the teachings and judge of them according to the light 
views of his young and excitable associates. He who is fore- 
warned is fore-wea.poned. I was kept pure, as it is termed — 
or, in other words, kept ignorant of myself and of the world I 
was destined to live in — until one fine day I was cut loose 
from the apron-strings of my lady-mother, and the tether of my 
abbe-tutor, and launched head-foremost into that vortex of temp- 
tation and iniquity, the world of Paris, like a ship without a 
chart or a compass. A precious race I ran in consequence, for 
a time ; and if I had not been so fortunate as to meet you, Ma- 
rie — whose bright eyes brought me out, like a blessed beacon, 
safe from that perilous ocean — I know not but I should have 
suffered shipwreck, both in fortune, which is a trifle, and in 
character, which is everything. No, no ; if that is all in which 
you doubt, your fears are causeless." 

" But that is not all. In this you may be right — I know 
not ; at all events, you are a fitter judge than I ! But are you 



THE YOUNG LOVERS. 241 

wise in encouraging so very strongly his fancy for Melanie 
d'Argenson ?" 

" I' faith, it is something more than a fancy, I think : the boy 
loves her !" 

" I see that, Louis, clearly ; and you encourage it." 

" And wherefore should I not? She is a good girl — as good 
as she is beautiful !" 

" She is an angel !" 

"And her mother, Marie, was your most intimate, your bosom 
friend." 

" And now a saint in heaven !" 

" Well, what more ? She is as noble as a De Rohan or a 
Montmorency ; she is an heiress with superb estates adjoining 
our own lands of St. Renan ; she is, like our Raoul, an only 
child ; and what is the most of all, I think, although it is not 
the mode in this dear France of ours to attach much weight to 
that, it is no made-up match, no cradle-plighting between babes 
— to be made good, perhaps, by the breaking of hearts — but a 
genuine, natural, mutual affection between two young, sincere, 
innocent, artless persons ; and a splendid couple they will make. 
What can you see to alarm you in that prospect ?" 

" Her father." 

" The sieur d'Argenson ! Well, I confess, he is not a very 
charming person ; but we all have our own faults or weak- 
nesses : and, after all, it is not he whom Raoul is about to 
marry." 

" I doubt his good faith, very sorely." 

" I should doubt it too, Marie, did I see any cause which 
should lead him to break it. But the match is in all respects 
more desirable for him than it is for us ; for, though Mademoi- 
selle d'Argenson is noble, rich, and handsome, the viscount de 
Douarnenez might be well justified in looking for a wife far 
higher than the daughter of a simple sieur of Bretagne. Be 

11 



242 true love's devotion. 

sides, although the children loved before any one spoke of it — 
before any one saw it, indeed, save I — it was D'Argenson him- 
self who broke the subject. What, then, should induce him to 
play false ?" 

" I do not know ; yet I doubt — I fear him." 

"But that, Marie, is unworthy of your character — of your 
mind." 

" Louis, she is too beautiful !" 

" I do not think Raoul will find fault with her on that score." 

" Nor would one greater than Raoul." 

" Whom do you mean ?" cried the count, now for the first 
time startled. 

" I have seen eyes fixed upon her in deadly admiration, 
which never admire but they pollute the object of their admi- 
ration." 

" The king's, Marie ?" 

" The king's !" 

"And then—?" 

" And then I have heard it whispered that the baron de Beau- 
lieu has asked her hand of the sieur d'Argenson." 

" The baron de Beaulieu ! and who the devil is the baron de 
Beaulieu, that the sieur d'Argenson should doubt for the nine 
hundredth part of a minute between him and the viscount de 
Douarnenez for the husband of his daughter ?" 

" The baron de Beaulieu, count, is the very particular friend, 
the right-hand man, and most private minister, of his most Chris- 
tian majesty King Louis XV." 

" Ha ! is it possible ? Do you mean that — " 

"I mean even that — if, by that, you mean all that is most 
infamous and loathsome on the part of Beaulieu, all that is most 
licentious on the part of the king. I believe — nay, I am well- 
nigh sure — that there is such a scheme of villany on foot 
against that sweet, unhappy child ; and therefore would I pause 



a mother's apprehensions. 243 

ere I urged too far my child's love toward her, lest it prove 
most unhappy and disastrous." 

"And do you think D'Argenson capable — "exclaimed her 
husband — 

" Of anything," she answered, interrupting him, " of anything 
that may serve his avarice or his ambition." 

"Ah ! it may be so. I will look to it, Marie ; I will look to 
it narrowly. But I fear that, if it be as you fancy, it is too late 
already ; that our boy's heart is devoted to her entirely ; that 
any break now, in one word, would be a heart-break !" 

" He loves her very dearly, beyond doubt," replied the lady ; 
" and she deserves it all, and is, I think, very fond of him like- 
wise." 

"And can you suppose for a moment that she will lend her- 
self to such a scheme of infamy?" 

" Never ! She would die sooner." 

" I do not apprehend, then, that there will be so much diffi- 
culty as you seem to fear. This business which brought all 
of us Bretons up to Paris, as claimants of justice for our prov- 
ince, or courters of the king's grace, as they phrase it, is fin- 
ished happily ; and there is nothing to detain any of us in this 
great wilderness of stone and mortar any longer. D'Argenson 
told me yesterday that he should set out homeward on Wednes- 
day next ; and it is but hurrying our own preparations a little 
to travel with them in one party. I will see him this evening, 
and arrange it." 

" Have you ever spoken with him concerning the contract, 
Louis ?" 

" Never, directly, or in the form of a solemn proposal. But 
we have spoken oftentimes of the evident attachment of the 
children, and he has ever expressed himself gratified, and 
seemed to regard it as a matter of course. But hush ! here 
comes the boy : leave us a while, and I will speak with him." 



244 true love's devotion. 

Almost before his words were ended the door was thrown 
open, and young Raoul entered, splendidly dressed, with his 
rapier at his side, and his plumed hat in his hand — as likely a 
youth to win a fair maid's heart as ever wore the weapon of a 
gentleman. 

" Martin is absent, sir. He went out soon after breakfast, 
they tell me, to look after a pair of fine English carriage-horses 
for the countess my mother, and has not yet returned. I or- 
dered old Jean Francois to attend me, with the four other 
grooms." 

"Very well, Raoul. But look you — your head is young, 
and your blood hot. . You will meet, it is very like, all this 
canaille returning from the slaughter of poor Kerguelen. Now 
mark me, boy, there must be no vaporing on your part, or inter- 
fering with the populace ; and even if they should, as very 
probably they may, be insolent, and utter outcries and abuse 
against the nobility, even bear with them. On no account 
strike any person, nor let your servants do so, nor encroach 
upon their order ; unless, indeed, they should so far forget them- 
selves as to throw stones, or to strike the first blow." 

"And then, my father?" 

" Oh, then, Raoul, you are at liberty to let your good sword 
feel the fresh air, and to give your horse a taste of those fine 
spurs you wear. But even in that case, I should advise you to 
use your edge rather than your point. There is not much harm 
done in wiping a saucy burgher across the face to mend his 
manners, but to pink him through the body makes it an awk- 
ward matter. And I need not tell you by no means to fire, un- 
less you should be so beset and maltreated that you can not 
otherwise extricate yourself; yet you must have your pistols 
loaded. In these times it is necessary always to be provide^ 
against all things. I do not, however, tell you these things 
now because you are likely to be attacked ; but such events 



MELANIE D'ARGENSON. 245 

are always possible, and one can not provide against such too 
early." 

" I will observe what you say, my father. Have I your per- 
mission now to depart ?" 

" Not yet, Raoul ; I would speak with you first a few words. 
This Mademoiselle Melanie is very pretty, is she not?" 

" She is the most beautiful lady I have ever seen," replied 
the youth, not without some embarrassment. 

"And as amiable and gentle as she is beautiful?" 

" Oh, yes, indeed, sir. She is all gentleness and sweetness, 
yet is full of mirth, too, and graceful merriment." 

" In one word, then, she seems to you a very sweet and 
lovely creature." 

" Doubtless she does, my father." 

"And I beseech you tell me, viscount, in what light do you 
appear in the eyes of this very admirable young lady ?" 

" Oh, sir !" replied the youth, now very much embarrassed, 
and blushing actually from shame. 

" Nay, Raoul, I did not ask the question lightly, I assure you, 
or in the least degree as a jest. It becomes very important 
that I should know on what terms you and this fair lady stand 
together. You have been visiting her now almost daily, I think, 
during these three months last past. Do you conceive that you 
are very disagreeable to her ?" 

" Oh ! I hope not, sir. It would grieve me much if I thought 



so 



i» 



" Well, I am to understand, then, that you think she is not 
blind to your merits, sir ?" 

" I am not aware, my dear father, that I have any merits 
which she should be called to observe." 

" Oh, yes, viscount ! That is an excess of modesty which 
touches a little, I am afraid, on hypocrisy. You are not alto- 
gether without merits. You are young, not ill-looking, nobly 



246 



TRUE LOVES DEVOTION. 



born, and will, in God's good time, be rich. Then you can ride 
well, and dance gracefully, and are not. generally ill-educated 
or unpolished. It is quite as necessary, my dear son, that a 
young man should not. undervalue himself, as that he should 
not think of his deserts too highly. Now, that you have some 
merits, is certain — for the rest, I desire frankness of you just 
now, and beg that you will speak out plainly. I think you love 
this young girl : is it not so, Raoul ?" 

" I do love her sir, very dearly — with my whole heart and 
spirit !" 

" And do you feel sure that this is not a mere transient liking 
— that it will last, Raoul ?" 

" So long as life lasts in my heart, so long will my love for 
her last, my father !" 

"And you would wish to marry her?" 
" Beyond all things in this world, my dear father." 
"And do you think that, were her tastes and views on the 
subject consulted, she would say likewise ?" 

" I hope she would, sir. But I have never asked her." 
"And her father — is he gracious when you meet him ?" 
" Most gracious, sir, and most kind ; indeed, he distinguishes 
me above all the other young gentlemen who visit there." 
"You would not, then, despair of obtaining his consent." 
" By no means, my father, if you would be so kind as to 
ask it." 

" And you desire that I should do so ?" 

" You will make me the happiest man in all France, if you 
will !" 

" Then go your way, sir, and make the best you can of it 
with the young lady. I will speak myself with the sieur d'Ar- 
genson to-night ; and I do not despair any more than you do, 
Raoul. But look you, boy, you do not fancy, I hope, that you 
are going to church with your lady-love to-morrow or the next 



the lover's departure. 247 

day ! Two or three years hence, at the earliest, will be all in 
very good time. You must serve a campaign or two first, in 
order to show that you know how to use your sword." 

" In all things, my dear father, I shall endeavor to fulfil your 
wishes, knowing them to be as kindly as they are wise and 
prudent. I owe you gratitude for every hour since I was born, 
but for none so much as for this, for indeed you are going to 
make me the happiest of men." 

"Away with you then, Sir Happiness! Betake yourself on 
the wings of love to your bright lady ; and mind the advice of 
your favorite, Horace, to pluck the pleasures of the passing 
hour, mindful how short is the sum of mortal life !" 

The young man embraced his father gayly, and left the room 
with a quick step and a joyous heart ; and the jingling of his 
spurs, and the quick, merry clash of his scabbard on the marble 
staircase, told how joyously he descended its steps. 

A moment afterward his father heard the clear, sonorous 
tones of his fine voice calling to his attendants, and yet a few 
seconds later the lively clatter of his horse's hoofs on the re- 
sounding pavement. 

"Alas for the happy days of youth, which are so quickly 
flown !" exclaimed the father, as he participated in the hopeful 
and exulting mood of his noble boy ; " and alas for the promise 
of mortal happiness, which is so oft deceitful and a traitress !" 
He paused for a few moments, and seemed to ponder, and then 
added, with a confident and proud expression : " But I see not 
why one should forebode aught but success and happiness to 
this noble boy of mine. Thus far, everything has worked tow- 
ard the end as I would wish it. They have fallen in love nat- 
urally and of their own accord, and D'Argenson, whether he 
like it. or not, can not help himself. He must needs accedet 
proudly and joyfully, to my proposal ; he knows his estates to 
be in my power far too deeply to resist. Nay, more — though 



248 true love's devotion. 

he be somewhat selfish, and ambitious, and avaricious, I know- 
nothing of him that should justify me in believing that he would 
sell his daughter's honor, even to a king, for wealth or title ! 
My good wife is all too doubtful and suspicious. — But, hark! 
here comes the mob, returning from that unfortunate man's ex- 
ecution ! I wonder how he bore it ?**' 

And with the words he moved toward the window, and, 
throwing it open, stepped out upon the spacious balcony. Here 
he learned speedily, from the conversation of the passing crowd, 
that, although dreadfully shocked and startled by the first inti- 
mation of the death he was to undergo, which he received from 
the sight of the fatal wheel, the lord of Kerguelen had died as 
becomes a proud, brave man, reconciled to the church, forgiv- 
ing his enemies, without a groan or a murmur, under the pro- 
tracted agonies of that most horrible of deaths, the breaking on 
the wheel ! 

Meanwhile the day passed onward ; and when evening came, 
and the last and most social meal of the day was laid on the 
domestic board, young Raoul had returned from his visit to the 
lady of his love, full of high hopes and happy anticipations. 
Afterward, according to his promise, the count de St. Renan 
went forth and held debate until a late hour of the night with 
the sieur d'Argenson. Raoul had not retired when he came 
home, too restless in his youthful ardor even to think of sleep. 
His father brought good tidings : the father of the lady had 
consented, and on their arrival in Bretagne the marriage-con- 
tract was to be signed in form. 

That was to Raoul an eventful day ; and never did he forget 
it, or the teachings he drew from it. That day was his fate. 



THE CASTLE OF ST. RENAN. 249 



PART II. 

The castle of St. Renan, like the dwellings of many of the 
nobles of Bretagne and Gascony, was a superb old pile of solid 
masonry towering above the huge cliffs which guard the whole 
of that iron coast with its gigantic masses of rude masonry. So 
close did it stand to the verge of these precipitous crags on its 
seaward face, that whenever the wind from the westward blew 
angrily and in earnest, the spray of the tremendous billows 
which rolled in from the wide Atlantic, and burst in thunder at 
the foot of those stern ramparts, was dashed so high by the 
collision that it would often fall in salt, bitter rain, upon the es- 
planade above, and dim the diamond-paned casements with its 
cold mists. 

For leagues on either side, as the spectator stood upon the 
terrace above and gazed out on the expanse of the everlasting 
ocean, nothing was to be seen but the salient angles or deep 
recesses formed by the dark, gray cliffs, unrelieved by any 
spot of verdure, or even by that line of silver sand at their 
base, which often intervenes between the rocks of an iron 
coast and the sea. Here, however, there was no such inter- 
mediate step visible ; the black face of the rocks sunk sheer 
and abrupt into the water, which, by its dark-green hue, indi- 
cated to the practised eye, that it was deep and scarcely fath- 
omable to the very shore. 

In places, indeed, where huge caverns opening in front to 
the vast ocean, which had probably hollowed them out of the 
earth-fast rock in the course of succeeding ages, yawned in 
the mimicry of Gothic arches, the entering tide would rush, as 
it were, into the bowels of the land, roaring and groaning in 

11* 



250 true love's devotion*. 

those strange subterranean dungeons like some strong prisoner, 
Typhon, Enceladus, or Ephialtes, in his immortal agony. One 
of these singular vaults opened right, in the base of the rock on 
the summit of which stood the castle of St. Renan, and into 
this the billows rushed with rapidity so tumultuous and terrible 
that the fishers of that stormy coast avowed that a vortex was 
created in the bay by their influx or return seaward, which 
could be perceived sensibly at a league's distance ; and that to 
be caught in it, unless the wind blew strong and steadily off 
land, was sure destruction. However that might be, it is cer- 
tain that this great subterranean tunnel extended far beneath 
the rocks into the interior of the land, for at the distance of 
nearly two miles from the castle, directly eastward, in the bot- 
tom of a dark, wooded glen, which runs for many miles nearly 
parallel to the coast, there is a deep, rocky well, or natural 
cavity, of a form nearly circular, which, when the tide is up, 
is filled to overflowing with bitter sea-water, on which the bub- 
bles and foam-flakes show the obstacles against which it must 
have striven in its landward journey. At low water, on the 
contrary, " the Devil's Drinking-Cup," for so it is named by 
the superstitious peasantry of the neighborhood, presents noth- 
ing to the eye but a deep, black abyss, which the countryfolks, 
of course, assert to be bottomless. But, in truth, its depth is 
immense, as can easily be perceived, if you cast a stone into it, 
by the length of time during which it may be heard thundering 
from side to side, until the reverberated roar of its descent ap- 
pears to die away, not because it has ceased, but because the 
sound is too distant to be conveyed to human ears. 

On this side of the castle everything differs as much as it is 
possible to conceive from the view to the seaward, which is 
grim and desolate as any ocean scenery the world over. Few 
sails are ever seen on those dangerous coasts ; all vessels 
bound to the mouth of the Garonne, or southward to the shores 



COUNTRY AROUND ST. RENAN CASTLE. 251 

of Spain, giving as wide a berth as possible to its frightful reefs 
and inaccessible crags, which to all their other terrors add that, 
from the extraordinary prevalence of the west wind on that 
part of the ocean, of being, during at least three parts of the 
year, a lee shore. 

Inland, however, instead of the bleak and barren surface of 
the ever-stormy sea, indented into long rolling ridges and dark 
tempestuous hollows, all was varied and smiling, and gratifying 
to every sense given by nature for his good to man. Imme- 
diately from the brink of the cliffs the land sloped downward 
southwardly and to the eastward, so that it was bathed during 
all the day, except a few late evening hours, in the fullest ra- 
diance of the sunbeams. Over this immense sloping descent 
the eye could range from the castle battlements for miles and 
miles, until the rich green champaign was lost in the blue haze 
of distance. And it was green and gay over the whole of that 
vast expanse, here with the dense and unpruned foliage of im- 
memorial forests, well stocked with every species of game, 
from the gaunt wolf and the tusky boar, to the fleet roebuck and 
the timid hare ; here with the trim and smiling verdure of rich 
orchards, in which nestled around their old, gray shrines the 
humble hamlets of the happy peasantry ; and everywhere with 
the long intersecting curves, and sinuous irregular lines of the 
old hawthorn hedges, thick set with pollard trees and hedge- 
row timber, which make the whole country, when viewed from 
a height, resemble a continuous tract of intermingled glades 
and coppices, and which have procured for an adjoining district 
the well-known, and in after-days far celebrated name of the 
Bocage. 

Immediately around the castle, on the edge as it were of this 
beautiful and almost boundless slope, there lay a large and 
well-kept garden in the old French style, laid out in a succes- 
sion of terraces, bordered by balustrades of marble, adorned at 



252 true love's devotion. 

frequent intervals by urns and statues, and rendered accessible 
each from the next below by flights of ornamented steps of reg- 
ular and easy elevation ; pleached bowery walks, and high 
clipped hedges of holly, yew, and hornbeam, were the usual 
decorations of such a garden, and here they abounded to an 
extent that would have gladdened the heart of an admirer of 
the tastes and habits of the olden time. In addition to these, 
however, there were a profusion of flowers of the choicest 
kinds known or cultivated in those days — roses and lilies 
without number, and honeysuckles, and the sweet-scented cle- 
matis, climbing in bountiful luxuriance over the numberless 
seats and bowers which everywhere tempted to repose. 

Below this beautiful garden a wide expanse of smooth, green 
turf, dotted here and there with majestic trees, and at rarer in- 
tervals diversified with tall groves and verdant coppices, cov- 
ered the whole descent of the first hill to the dim wooded dell 
which has been mentioned as containing the singular cavity 
known throughout the country as the " Devil's Drinking-Cup." 
This dell, which was the limit of count de St. Renan's de- 
mesnes in that direction, was divided from the park by a rag- 
ged paling many feet in height, and of considerable strength, 
framed of rough timber from the woods, the space within being 
appropriated to a singular and choice breed of deer, imported 
from the East by one of the former counts, who, being of an 
adventurous and roving disposition, had sojourned for some 
time in the French settlements of Hindostan. Beyond this 
dell again, which was defended on the outer side by a strong 
and lofty wall of brick, all overrun with luxuriant ivy, the 
ground rose in a small rounded knoll, or hillock of small ex- 
tent, richly wooded, and crowned by the gray turrets and steep 
flagged roof of the old chateau d'Argenson. 

This building, however, was as much inferior in size and 
stateliness to the grand feudal fortalice of St. Renan, as the lit- 



THREE YEARS AFTER. 253 

tie round-topped hill on which it stood, so slightly elevated 
above the face of the surrounding country as to detract nothing, 
at least in appearance, from its general slope to the southeast- 
ward, Avas lower than the great rock-bound ridge from which 
it overlooked the territories, all of which had in distant times 
obeyed the rules of its almost princely dwellers. 

The sun of a lovely evening in the latter part of July had 
already sunk so far down in the west that only one half of its 
great golden disk was visible above the well-defined, dark out- 
line of the seaward-crags, which, relieved by the glowing ra- 
diance of the whole western sky, stood out massive and solid 
like a huge purple wall, and seemed so close at hand that the 
spectator could almost persuade himself that he had but to 
stretch out his arm, in order to touch the great barrier, which 
was in truth several miles distant. 

Over the crest, and through the gaps of this continuous line 
of highland, the long level rays streamed down in the slope in 
one vast flood of golden glory, which was checkered only by 
the interminable length of shadows which were projected from 
every single tree, or scattered clump, from every petty eleva- 
tion of the soil, down the soft glimmering declivity. 

Three years had elapsed since the frightful fate of the un- 
happy lord of Kerguelen, and the various incidents, which in 
some sort took their origin from the nature of his crime and 
its consequence, affecting in the highest degree the happiness 
of the families of St. Renan and D'Argenson. 

Three years had elapsed — three years ! That is a little 
space in the annals of the world, in the life of nations, nay, in 
the narrow records of humanity. Three years of careless hap- 
piness, three years of indolent and tranquil ease, unmarked by 
any great event, pass over our heads unnoted, and, save in the 
gray hairs which they scatter, leave no memorial of their tran- 
sit, more than the sunshine of a happy summer day. They 
are, they are gone, they are forgotten. 



254 true love's devotion. 

Even three years of gloom and sorrow, of that deep anguish 
which at the time the sufferer believes to be indelible and ever- 
lasting, lag on their weary, desolate course, and when they too 
are over-passed, and he looks back upon their transit, which 
seemed so painfully protracted, and, lo ! all is changed, and 
their flight also is now but as an ended minute. 

And yet, what strange and sudden changes altering the affairs 
of men, changing the hearts of mortals, yea, revolutionizing 
their whole intellects, and overturning their very natures — 
more than the devastating earthquake or the destroying lava 
transforms the face of the everlasting earth — have not been 
wrought, and again well nigh forgotten within that little period. 

Three years had passed, I say, over the head of Raoul de 
Douarnenez — the three most marked and memorable years in 
the life of every young man — and from the ingenuous and 
promising stripling, he had now become in every respect a 
man, and a bold and enterprising man, moreover, who had seen 
much and struggled much, and suffered somewhat — without 
which there is no gain of his wisdom here below — in his tran- 
sit, even thus far, over the billows and among the reefs and 
quicksands of the world. 

His father had kept his promise to that loved son in all 
things, nor had the sieur d'Argenson failed of his plighted 
faith. The autumn of that year, the spring of which saw Ker- 
guelen die in unutterable agony, saw Raoul de Douarnenez the 
contracted and affianced husband of the lovely and beloved 
Melanie. 

All that was wanted now to render them actually man and 
wife, to create between them that bond which, alone of mortal 
ties, man can not sunder, was the ministration of the church's 
holiest rite, and that, in wise consideration of their tender 
years, was postponed until the termination of the third summer. 

During the interval it was decided that Raoul, as was the 



A NEW COUNT DE ST. RENAN. 255 

custom of the world in those days, especially among the nobil- 
ity, and most especially among the nobility of France, should 
bear arms in active service, and see something of the world 
abroad, before settling down into the easier duties of domestic 
life. The family of St. Renan, since the days of that ancestor 
who has been already mentioned as having sojourned in Pondi- 
cherry, had never ceased to maintain some relations with 
the East Indian possessions of France, and a relation of the 
house in no very remote degree was at this time military gov- 
ernor of the French East Indies, which were then, previous to 
the unexampled growth of the British empire in the East, im- 
portant, flourishing, and full of future promise. 

Thither, then, it was determined that Raoul should go in 
search of adventures, if not of fortune, in the spring following 
the signature of his marriage contract with the young demoi- 
selle d'Argenson. And, consequently, after a winter passed in 
quiet domestic happiness on the noble estates, whereon the 
gentry of Brittany were wont to reside in almost patriarchal 
state — a winter, every day of which the young lovers spent in 
company, and at every eve of which they separated more in 
love than they were at meeting in the morning — Raoul set 
sail in a fine frigate, carrying several companies of the line, 
invested with the rank of ensign, and proud to bear the colors 
of his king, for the shores of the still half-fabulous oriental 
world. 

Three years had passed, and the boy had returned a man, 
the ensign had returned a colonel, so rapid was the promotion 
of the nobility of the sword in the French army, under the an- 
cient regime ; and — greatest change of all, ay, and saddest — 
the viscount of Douarnenez had returned count de St. Renan. 
An infectious fever, ere he had been one year absent from the 
land of his birth, and had cut off his noble father in the very 
pride and maturity of his intellectual manhood ; nor had his 



256 true love's devotion. 

mother lingered long behind him whom she had ever loved so 
fondly. A low, slow fever, caught from that beloved patient 
whom she had so affectionately nurtured, was as fatal to her, 
though not so suddenly, as it had proved to her good lord ; and 
when their son returned to France full of honors achieved, and 
gay anticipations for the future, he found himself an orphan, 
the lord in lonely and unwilling state of the superb demesnes 
which had so long called his family their owners. 

There never in the world was a kinder heart than that which 
beat in the breast of the young soldier, and never was a family 
more strictly bound together by all the kindly influences which 
breed love and confidence, and domestic happiness among all 
the members of it, than that of St Renan. There had been 
nothing austere or rigid in the bringing up of the gallant boy ; 
the father, who had at one hour been the tutor and the moni- 
tor, was at the next the comrade and the playmate, and at all 
times the true and trusted friend, while the mother had been 
ever the idolized and adored protectress, and the confidante of 
all the innocent schemes and artless joys of boyhood. 

Bitter, then, was the blow stricken to the very heart of the 
young soldier, when the first tidings which he received, on 
landing in his loved France, was the intelligence that those — 
all those, with but one exception — whom he most tenderly 
and truly loved, all those to whom he looked up with affection- 
ate trust for advice and guidance, all those on whom he relied 
for support in his first trials of young manhood, were cold and 
silent in the all-absorbing tomb. 

To him there was no hot, feverish ambition prompting him 
to grasp joyously the absolute command of his great heritage. 
In his heart there was none of that fierce yet sordid avarice 
which finds compensation for the loss of the scarce-lamented 
dead in the severance of the dearest natural bonds, in the pos- 
session of wealth, or the promise of power. Nor was this all, 



A YOUNG AND TRUSTING HEART. 257 

for, in truth, so well had Raoul de Douarnenez been brought 
up, and so completely had wisdom grown up with his growth, 
that when, at the age of nineteen years, he found himself en- 
dowed with the rank and revenues of one of the highest and 
wealthiest peers of France, and in all but mere name his own 
master — for the abbe de Chastellar, his mother's brother, who 
had been appointed his guardian by his father's will, scarcely 
attempted to exercise even a nominal jurisdiction over him — 
he felt himself more than ever at a loss, deprived as he was, 
when he most needed it, of his best natural counsellor ; and 
instead of rejoicing, was more than half inclined to lament over 
the almost absolute self-control with which he found himself 
invested. 

Young hearts are naturally true themselves, and prone to 
put trust in others ; and it is rarely, except in a few dark and 
morose and gloomy natures, which are exceptions to the rule 
and standard of human nature, that man learns to be distrustful 
and suspicious of his kind, even after experience of fickleness 
and falsehood may have in some sort justified suspicions, until 
his head has grown gray. 

And this in an eminent degree was the case with Raoul de 
St. Renan, for henceforth he must be called by the title which 
his altered state had conferred upon him. 

His natural disposition was as trustful and unsuspicious as 
it was artless and ingenuous ; and from his early youth all the 
lessons which had been taught him by his parents tended to 
preserve in him unblemished and unbroken that bright gem, 
which once shattered never can be restored, confidence in the 
truth, the probity, the goodness of mankind. 

Some ruder schooling he had met in the course of his ser- 
vice in the eastern world — he had already learned that men, 
and — harder knowledge yet to gain — women also, can feign 
friendship, ay, and love, where neither have the least root in 



258 true love's devotion. 

the heart, for purposes the vilest, ends the most sordid. He 
had learned that bosom friends can be secret foes ; that false 
loves can betray ; and yet he was not disenchanted with hu- 
manity, he had not even dreamed of doubting, because he had 
fallen among worldly-minded flatterers and fickle-hearted co- 
quettes, that absolute friendship and unchangeable love may 
exist, even in this evil world, stainless and incorruptible among 
all the changes and chances of this mortal life. 

If he had been deceived, he had attributed the failure of his 
hopes hitherto to the right cause — the fallacy of his own judg- 
ment, and the error of his own choice ; and the more he had 
been disappointed the more firmly had he relied on what he 
felt certain could not change, the affection of his parents, the 
love of his betrothed bride. 

On the very instant of his landing he found himself ship- 
wrecked in his first hope ; and on his earliest interview with 
his uncle, in Paris, he had the agony — the utter and appalling 
agony to undergo — of hearing that in the only promise which 
he had flattered himself was yet left to him, he was destined 
in all probability to undergo a deeper, deadlier disappointment. 

If Melanie d'Argenson had been a lovely girl, the good abbe 
said, when she was budding out of childhood into youth, so ut- 
terly had she outstripped all the promise of her girlhood, that 
no words could describe, nor imagination suggest to itself the 
charms of the mature yet youthful woman. There was no 
other beauty named, when loveliness was the theme, throughout 
all France, than that of the young betrothed of Raoul de Dou- 
arnenez. And that which was so loudly and so widely bruited 
abroad, could not fail to reach the ever open, ever greedy ears 
of the vile and sensual tyrant who sat on the throne of France, 
at that time heaping upon his people that load of suffering and 
anguish which was in after-times to be avenged so bitterly and 
bloodily upon the innocent heads of his unhappy descendants. 



THE ROYAL VOLUPTUARY. 259 

Louis had, moreover, heard years before, nay, looked upon 
the nascent loveliness of Melanie d'Argenson, and, with that 
cold-blooded voluptuary, to look on beauty was to lust after it, 
to lust after it was to devote all the powers his despotism could 
command to win it. 

Hence as the abbe de Chastellar soon made his unfortunate 
nephew and pupil comprehend, a settled determination had 
arisen on the part of the odious despot to break off the marriage 
of the lovely girl with the young soldier whom it was well 
known that she fondly loved, and to have her the wife of one 
who would be less tender of his honor, and less reluctant to 
surrender, or less difficult to be deprived of a bride, too trans- 
cendency beautiful to bless the arms of a subject, even if he 
were the noblest of the noble. 

All this was easily arranged, the base father of Melanie was 
willing enough to sell his exquisite and virtuous child to the 
splendid infamy of becoming a king's paramour, and the yet 
baser chevalier de la Rochederrien was eager to make the 
shameful negotiation easy, and to sanction it to the eyes 
of the willingly hoodwinked world, by giving his name and 
rank to a woman, who was to be his wife but in name, and 
whose charms and virtue he had precontracted to make over to 
another. 

The infamous contract had been agreed upon by the princi- 
pal actors ; nay, the wages of the iniquity had been paid in ad- 
vance. The sieur d'Argenson had grown into the comte of 
the same, with the governorship of the town of Morlaix added, 
by the revenues of which to support his new dignities ; while 
the chevalier de la Rochederrien had become no less a per- 
sonage than the marquis de Ploermel, with a captaincy in the 
musquetaires, and Heaven knows what beside of honorary title 
and highly-gilded sinecure, whereby to reconcile him to such 
depth of sordid infamy as the meanest galley-slave could have 



260 true love's devotion. 

scarce undertaken as the price of exchange between his fetters 
and his oars, and the great noble's splendor. 

Such were the tidings which greeted Raoul on his return 
from honorable service to his king — service for which he was 
thus repaid ; and, before he had even time to reflect on the con- 
sequences, or to comprehend the anguish thus entailed upon 
him, his eyes were opened instantly to comprehension of two 
or three occurrences which previously he had been unable to 
explain to himself, or even to guess at their meaning by any 
exercise of ingenuity. The first of these was the singular 
ignorance in which he had been kept of the death of his parents 
by the government officials in the East, and the very evident 
suppression of the letters which, as his uncle informed him, 
had been despatched to summon him with all speed homeward. 

The second was the pertinacity with which he had been 
thrust forward, time after time, on the most desperate and deadly 
duty — a pertinacity so striking, that, eager as the young sol- 
dier was, and greedy of any chance of winning honor, it had 
not failed to strike him that he was frequently ordered on duty 
of a nature which, under ordinary circumstances, is performed 
by volunteers. 

Occurrences of this kind are soon remarked in armies, and 
it had early become a current remark in the camp that to serve 
in Raoul's company was a sure passport either to promotion or 
to the other world. But to such an extent was this carried, 
that when time after time that company had been decimated, 
even the bravest of the brave experienced an involuntary sink- 
ing of the heart when informed that they were transferred or 
even promoted into those fatal ranks. 

Nor was this all, for twice it had occurred, once when he 
was a captain in command of a company, and again when he 
had a whole regiment under his orders as its colonel, that his 
superiors, after detaching him on duty so desperate that it 



THE FORLORN HOPE. 261 

might almost be regarded as a forlorn hope, had entirely neg- 
lected either to support or recall him, but had left him exposed 
to almost inevitable destruction. 

In the first instance, not a man whether officer or private of 
his company had escaped, with the exception of himself. And 
he was found, when all was supposed to be over, in the last 
ditch of the redoubt which he had been ordered to defend to 
the uttermost, after it had been retaken, with his colors wrapped 
around his breast, still breathing a little, although so cruelly 
wounded that his life was long despaired of, and was only saved 
at last by the vigor and purity of an unblemished and unbro- 
ken constitution. On the second occasion, he had been suffered 
to contend alone for three entire days with but a single battal- 
ion against a whole oriental army ; but then, that which had 
been intended to destroy him had won him deathless fame, for 
by a degree of skill in handling his little force, which had by 
no means been looked for in so young an officer, although his 
courage and his conduct were both well known, he had suc- 
ceeded in giving a bloody repulse to the overwhelming masses 
of the enemy, and when at length he was supported — doubt- 
less when support was deemed too late to avail him aught — 
by a few hundred native horse and a few guns, he had converted 
that check into a total and disastrous route. 

So palpable was the case that although Raoul suspected 
nothing of the reasons which had led to that disgraceful affair, 
he had demanded an inquiry into the conduct of his superior ; 
and that unfortunate personage being clearly convicted of unmil- 
itary conduct, and having failed in the end which would have 
justified the means in the eyes of the voluptuous tyrant, was 
ruthlessly abandoned to his fate, and actually died on the scaf- 
fold with a gag in his mouth, as did the gallant Lally a few 
years afterward to prevent his revelation of the orders which 
he had received and for obeying which he perished. 



262 true love's devotion. 

All this, though strange and even extraordinary, had failed 
up to this moment to awaken any suspicion of undue or trea- 
sonable agency in the mind of Raoul. 

But now as his uncle spoke the scales fell from his eyes, and 
he saw all the baseness, all the villany of the monarch and his 
satellites, in its true light. 

" Is it so ? Is it, indeed, so ?" he said mournfully. And it 
really appeared that grief at detecting such a dereliction on the 
part of his king, had a greater share in the feelings of the noble 
youth than indignation or resentment. " Is it indeed so ?" he 
said ; " and could neither my father's long and glorious services, 
nor my poor conduct, avail aught to turn him from such infamy 1 
But tell me," he continued, the blood now mounting fiery red to 
his pale face, " tell me this, uncle, is she true to me ? is she 
pure and good? Forgive, me, Heaven, that I doubt her; but 
in such a mass of infamy where may a man look for faith or 
virtue ? Is Melanie true to rne, or is she, too, consenting to 
this scheme of infamous and loathsome guilt ?" 

" She was true, my son, when I last saw her," replied the 
good clergyman ; " and you may well believe that I spared no 
argument to urge her to hold fast to her loyalty and faith, and 
she vowed then, by all that was most dear and holy, that noth- 
ing should induce her ever to become the wife of Rochederrien. 
But they carried her off into the province, and have immured 
her, I have heard men say, almost in a dungeon, in her father's 
castle, for now above a twelvemonth. What has fallen out no 
one as yet knows certainly ; but it is whispered now that she 
has yielded, and the court scandal goes that she has either 
wedded him already, or is to do so now within a few days. It 
is said that they are looked for ere the month is out in Paris." 

" Then I will to horse, uncle," replied Raoul, " before this 
night is two hours older for St. Renan." 

" Great Heaven ! to what end, Raoul ? For the sake of all 



NO SUCH WORD AS CANNOT. 263 

that is good — by your father's memory — I implore you, do 
nothing rashly !" 

" To know of my own knowledge if she be true or false, 
uncle." 

" And what matters it, Raoul ? My boy, my unhappy boy ! 
False or true, she is lost to you alike, for ever ! You have 
that against which to contend, which no human energy can 
conquer." 

" I know not the thing which human energy can not conquer, 
uncle ! It is years now ago that my good father taught me this 
— that there is no such word as cannot! I have proved it 
before now, uncle-abbe : I may, should I find it worth the while, 
prove it again, and that shortly. If so, let the guilty and the 
traitors look to themselves — they were best, for they shall 
need it !" 

Such was the state of St. Renan's affections and his hopes 
when he left the gay capital of France, within a few hours af- 
ter his arrival, and hurried down at the utmost speed of man 
and horse into Bretagne, whither he made his way so rapidly, 
that the first intimation his people received of his return from 
the East was his presence at the gates of the castle. 

Great, as may be imagined, was the real joy of the old, true- 
hearted servitors of the house, at finding their lord thus unex- 
pectedly restored to them, at a time when they had in fact 
almost abandoned every hope of seeing him again. The same 
infernal policy which had thrust him so often, as it were, into 
the very jaws of death — which had intercepted all the letters 
sent to him from home, and taken, in one word, every step that 
ingenuity could suggest to isolate him altogether in that distant 
world — had taken measures as deep and iniquitous at home to 
cause him to be regarded as one dead, and to obliterate all mem- 
ory of his existence. 

Three different times reports so circumstantial, and accom- 



264 TRUE LOVE S DEVOTION. 

panied by such minute details of time and place, as to render it 
almost impossible for men to doubt their authenticity, had been 
circulated with regard to the death of the young soldier ; and 
as no tidings had been received of him from any more direct 
source, the last news of his fall had been generally received as 
true, no motive appearing why it should be discredited. 

His appearance, therefore, at the castle of St. Renan, was 
hailed as that of one who had been lost and was now found — 
of one who had been dead, and lo ! he was alive. The banc- 
loche of the old feudal pile rang forth its blithest and most 
jovial notes of greeting ; the banner, with the old armorial bear- 
ings of St. Renan, was displayed upon the keep ; and a few 
light pieces of antique artillery — falcons, and culverins, and 
demi-cannon, which had kept their places on the battlements 
since the days of the leagues — sent forth their thunders far 
and wide over the astonished country. 

So generally, however, had the belief of Raoul's death been 
circulated, and so absolute had been the credence given to the 
rumor, that when those unwonted sounds of rejoicing were heard 
to proceed from the long-silent walls of St. Renan, men never 
suspected that the lost heir had returned to enjoy his own again, 
but fancied that some new master had established his claim to 
the succession, and was thus celebrating his investiture with 
the rights of the counts of St. Renan. 

Nor was this wonderful, for ocular proof was scarcely enough 
to satisfy the oldest retainers of the family of the young lord's 
identity ; and indeed ocular proof was rendered in some sort 
dubious by the great alteration which had taken place in the 
appearance of the personage in question. 

Between the handsome stripling of sixteen and the grown 
man of twenty summers there is a greater difference than the 
same lapse of time will produce at any other period of human 
life. And this change had been rendered even greater than 



THE BOY A MAN. 265 

usual by the burning climate to which Raoul had been exposed, 
by the stout endurance of fatigues which had prematurely en- 
larged and hardened his youthful frame, and above all by the 
dark experience which had spread something of the thoughtful 
cast of age over the smooth and gracious lineaments of boy- 
hood. 

When he left home, the viscount de Douarnenez was a slight, 
slender, graceful stripling, with a fair, delicate complexion, a 
profusion of light hair waving in soft curls over his shoulders, 
a light, elastic step, and a frame which, though it showed the 
promise already of strength to be attained with maturity, was 
conspicuous as yet for ease, and agility, and pliability, rather 
than for power or robustness. 

On his return, he had lost, it is true, no jot of his graceful- 
ness or ease of demeanor, but he had shot up and expanded 
into a tall, broad-shouldered, round-chested, thin-flanked man, 
with a complexion burned to the darkest hue of which a Euro- 
pean skin is susceptible, and which perhaps required the aid 
of the full, soft blue eye to prove it to be European — with a 
glance as quick, as penetrating, and at the same time as calm 
and steady, as that of the eagle when he gazes undazzled at the 
noontide splendor. 

His hair had been cut short to wear beneath the casque, 
which was still carried by cavaliers, and had grown so much 
darker, that this alteration alone would have gone far to defy 
the recognition of his friends. He wore a thick, dark mus- 
tache on his upper lip, and a large " royal," which we should 
now-a-days call an " imperial," on his chin. 

The whole aspect and expression of face, moreover, was al- 
tered, even in a greater degree than his complexion or his per- 
son. All the quick, sparkling play and mobility of feature, the 
sharp flash of rapidly-succeeding sentiments and strong emo- 
tions, expressed on the ingenuous face as soon as they were 
12 



266 TRUE LOVE S DEVOTION. 

conceived within the brain — all these had disappeared com- 
pletely — disappeared, never to return. 

The grave composure of the thoughtful, self-possessed, expe- 
rienced soldier, sufficient in himself to meet every emergency, 
every alternation of fortune, had succeeded the imaginative, im- 
pulsive ardor of the impetuous, gallant boy. 

There was a shadow, too, a heavy shadow of something.more 
than thought ; for it was, in truth, deep, real, heartfelt melan- 
choly, which lent an added gloom to the cold fixity of eye and 
lip — which had obliterated all the gay and gleeful flashes which 
used, from moment to moment, to light up the countenance so 
speaking and so frank in its disclosures. 

Yet it would have been difficult to say whether Raoul de St. 
Renan — grave, dark, and sorrowful, as he now showed — was 
not both a handsomer and more attractive person than he had 
been in his earlier days, as the gay and thoughtless viscount 
de Douarnenez. 

There was a depth of feeling as well as of thought now per- 
ceptible in the pensive brow and calm eye ; and if the ordinary 
expression of those fine and placid lineaments was fixed and 
cold, that coldness and rigidity vanished when his face was 
lighted up by a smile, as quickly as the thin ice of an April 
morning melts away before the first glitter of the joyous sun- 
beams. Nor were these smiles rare or forced, though not now as 
habitual as in those days of youth unalloyed by calamity, and 
unsunned by passion, which, once departed, never can return 
in this world ! 

The morning of the young lord's arrival passed gloomily 
enough. It was the very height of summer, it is true, and the 
sun was shining his brightest over field, and tree, and tower, 
and everything appeared to partake of the delicious influence 
of the charming weather, and to put on its blithest and most 
radiant apparel. 



THE CHANGES AT HOME. 267 

Never perhaps had the fine grounds, with their soft, mossy, 
sloping lawns, and tranquil, brimful waters, and shadowy groves 
of oak and elm — great, immemorial trees — looked lovelier than 
they did that day to greet their long-absent master. 

But, inasmuch as nothing in this world is more delightful, 
nothing more unmixed in its means of conveying pleasure, than 
the return, after long wanderings in foreign climes, among vi- 
cissitudes, and cares, and sorrows, to an unchanged and happy 
home, where the same faces are assembled to smile on your 
late return which wept at your departure — so nothing can 
be imagined sadder or more depressing to the spirit than, so 
returning, to find all things inanimate unchanged, or if changed, 
more beautiful and brighter for the alteration, but all the living, 
breathing, sentient creatures — the creatures whose memory 
has cheered our darkest days of sorrow, whose love we desire 
most to find unaltered — gone, never to return, swallowed by 
the cold grave, deaf, silent, unresponsive to our fond affection ! 

Such was St. Renan's return to the house of his fathers. 
Until a few short days before, he had pictured to himself his 
father's moderate and manly pleasure, his mother's holy kiss 
and chastened rapture at beholding once again, at clasping to 
her happy bosom, the son, whom she sent forth a boy, returned 
a man worthy the pride of the most ambitious parent. 

All this Raoul de St. Renan had anticipated, and bitter, bitter 
was the pang when he perceived all this gay and glad antici- 
pation thrown to the winds irreparably. 

There was not a room in the old house, not a view from a 
single window, not a tree in the noble park, not a winding curve 
of a trout-stream glimmering through the coppices, but was in 
some way connected with his tenderest and most sacred recol- 
lections — but had a memory of pleasant hours attached to it — 
but recalled the sound of the kindliest and dearest words, 
couched in the sweetest tones — the sight of persons but to 



268 true love's devotion. 

think of whom made his heart thrill and quiver to its inmost 
core. 

And for hours he had wandered through the long, echoing 
corridors, the stately and superb saloons, feeling their solitude 
as if it had been actual presence weighing upon his soul, and 
peopling every apartment with the phantoms of the loved and 
lost. 

Thus had the day lagged onward ; and, as the sun stooped 
toward the west, darker and sadder had become the young 
man's fancies, and he felt as if his last hope were about to fade 
out with the fading light of the declining day-god. So gloomy, 
indeed, were his thoughts — so sadly had he become inured to 
wo within the last few days — so certainly had the reply to ev- 
ery question he had asked been the very bitterest and most 
painful he could have met — that he had, in truth, lacked the 
courage to assure himself of that on which he could not deny 
to himself that his last hope of happiness depended. He had 
not ventured yet to ask even of his own most faithful servants 
whether Melanie d'Argenson — who was, he well knew, living 
scarcely three bow-shots distant from the spot where he stood 
— was true to him — was a maiden or a wedded wife ! 

And the old servitors, well aware of the earnest love which 
had existed between the young people, and of the contract 
which had been entered into with the consent of all parties, 
knew not how their young master now stood affected toward 
the lady, and consequently feared to speak on the subject. 

At length, when he had dined some hours, while he was sit- 
ting with the old bailiff, who had been endeavoring to seduce 
him into an examination of I know not what of rents and leases, 
dues and droits, seignorial and manorial — while the bottles of 
ruby-colored Bordeaux wine stood almost untouched before 
them — the young man made an effort, and raising his head 
suddenly after a long and thoughtful silence, asked his compan- 



UNWELCOME NEWS. 269 

ion whether the comte d'Argenson was at that time resident at 
the chateau. 

" Oh, yes, monseigneur," the old man returned immediately, 
" he has been here all the summer, and the chateau has been 
full of gay company from Paris. Never such times have been 
known in my days : hawking-parties one day, and hunting- 
matches the next, and music and balls every night, and caval- 
cades of bright ladies, and cavaliers all ostrich-plumes and cloth 
of gold and tissue, that you would think our old woods here 
were converted into fairy-land. The young lady Melanie was 
wedded only three days since to the marquis de Ploermel ; but 
you will not know him by that name, I trow : he was the chev- 
alier only — the chevalier de la Rochederrien — when you were 
here before." 

"Ah, they are wedded, then," replied the youth, mastering 
his passions by a terrible exertion, and speaking of what rent 
his very heartstrings asunder, as if it had been a matter which 
concerned him not so much even as a thought ; " I heard it 
was about to be so shortly, but knew not that it had yet taken 
place." 

" Yes, monseigneur, three days since ; and it is very strange- 
ly thought of in the country, and very strange things are said 
on all sides concerning it." 

"As what, Matthieu?" 

" Why, the marquis is old enough to be her father, or some 
say her grandfather, for that matter ; and little Rosalie, her 
fille-de-chambre, has been telling all the neighborhood that 
Mademoiselle Melanie hated him with all her heart and soul, 
and would far rather die than go to the altar as his bride." 

" Pshaw ! is that all, good Matthieu ?" answered the youth, 
very bitterly — " is that all ? Why, there is nothing strange in 
that ; that is an every-day event. A pretty lady changes her 
mind, breaks her faith, and weds a man she hates and de- 



270 true love's devotion. 

spises ! Well ! that is perfectly in rule ; that is precisely 
what is done every day at court ! If you could tell just the 
converse of this tale — that a beautiful woman had kept her in- 
clinations unchanged, her faith unbroken, her honor pure and 
bright — that she had rejected a rich man or a powerful man 
because he was base or bad, and wedded a poor and honorable 
one because she loved him — then, indeed, my good Matthieu, 
you would be telling something that would make men open 
their eyes wide enough, and marvel what should follow. Is 
this all that you call strange ?" 

" You are jesting at me, monseigneur, for that I am country 
bred," replied the steward, staring at his youthful master with 
big eyes of astonishment ; " you can not mean that which you 
say !" 

" I do mean precisely what I say, my good friend ; and I 
never felt less like jesting in the whole course of my life. I 
know that you good folk down here in the quiet country judge 
of these things as you have spoken ; but that is entirely on ac- 
count of your ignorance of court life, and what is now termed 
nobility. What I tell you is strictly true : that falsehood, and 
intrigue, and lying — that daily sales of honor — that adultery 
and infamy of all kinds — are every-day occurrences in Paris ; 
and that the wonders of the time are truth and sincerity, and 
keeping faith and honor ! This, I doubt not, seems strange to 
you, but it is true for all that." 

"At least, it is not our custom down here in Bretagne," re- 
turned the old man, " and that, I suppose, is the reason why it 
appears to be so extraordinary to us here. But you will not 
say, I think, monsieur le comte, that what else I shall tell you 
is nothing strange or new." 

" What else will you tell me, Matthieu ? Let us hear it, and 
then I shall be better able to decide." 

" Why, they say, monseigneur, that she is no more the mar- 



AN OLD MAN'S TALE. 271 

quis de Ploermel's wife tlian she is yours or mine, except in 
name alone ; and that he does not dare to kiss her hand, much 
less her lips ; and that they have separate apartments, and are, 
as it were, strangers altogether ; and that the reason of all this 
is, that Ma'mselle Melanie is never to be his wife at all, but that 
she is to go to Paris in a few days, and to become the king's 
mistress ! Will you tell me that this is not strange — and more 
than strange, infamous — and dishonoring to the very name of 
man and woman ?" 

" Even in this, were it true, there would be nothing, I am 
grieved to say, very wondrous now-a-days — for there have 
been several base and terrible examples of such things, I am 
told, of late ; for the rest, I must sympathize with you in your 
disgust and horror of such doings, even if I prove myself 
thereby a mere country hobereau, and no man of the world, or 
of fashion. But you must not believe all these things to be 
true which you hear from the country gossips," he added, de- 
sirous still of shielding Melanie, so long as her guilt should be 
in the slightest possible degree doubtful, from the reproach 
which seemed already to attach to her. " I hardly can believe 
such things possible of so fair and modest a demoiselle as the 
young lady of D'Argenson : nor is it easy to me to believe 
that the count would consent to any arrangement so disgraceful, 
or that the chevalier de la Rocheder — I beg his pardon, the 
marquis de Ploermel, would marry a lady for such an infamous 
object. I think, therefore, good Matthieu, that, although there 
would not even in this be anything very wonderful, it is yet 
neither probable nor true." 

" Oh, yes, it is true ! I am well assured that it is true, mon- 
seigneur," replied the old man, shaking his head obstinately ; 
" I do not believe that there is much truth or honor in this lady 
either, or she would not so easily have broken one contract, or 
forgotten one lover !" 



272 true love's devotion. 

" Hush, hush, Matthieu !" cried Raoul, " you forget that we 
were mere children at that time ; such early troth plightings 
are foolish ceremonials at the best ; besides, do you not see that 
you are condemning me also as well as the lady ?" 

" Oh, that is different — that is quite different!" replied the 
old steward, " gentlemen may be permitted to take some little 
liberties which with ladies are not allowable. But that a young 
demoiselle should break her contract in such wise is disgrace- 
ful. 

" Well, well, we will not argue it to-night, Matthieu," said 
the young soldier, rising and looking out of the great oriel win- 
dow over the sunshiny park ; " I believe I will go and walk 
out for an hour or two and refresh my recollections of old 
times. It is a lovely afternoon as I ever beheld in France or 
elsewhere." 

And with the word he took up his rapier which lay on a slab 
near the table at which he had been sitting, and hung it to his 
belt, and then throwing on his plumed hat carelessly, without 
putting on his cloak, strolled leisurely out into the glorious 
summer evening. 

For a little while he loitered on the esplanade, gazing out 
toward the sea, the ridgy waves of which were sparkling like 
emeralds tipped with diamonds in the grand glow of the setting 
sun. But ere long he turned thence with a sigh, called up 
perhaps by some fancied similitude between that bright and 
boundless ocean, desolate and unadorned even by a single pas- 
sing sail, and his own course of life so desert, friendless, and 
uncompanioned. 

Thence he strolled listlessly through the fine garden, inha- 
ling the rare odors of the roses, hundreds of which bloomed on 
every side of him, there in low bushes, there in trim standards, 
and not a few climbing over tall trellices and bowery alcoves 
in one mass of living bloom. He saw the happy swallows 



AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 273 

darting and wheeling to and fro through the pellucid azure, in 
pursuit of their insect prey. He heard the rich mellow notes 
of the blackbirds and thrushes, thousands and thousands of 
which were warbling incessantly in the cool shadow of the 
yew and holly hedges. But his diseased and unhappy spirit 
took no delight in the animated sounds, or summer-teeming 
sights of rejoicing nature. No, the very joy and merriment, 
which seemed to pervade all nature, animate or inanimate 
around him, while he himself had no present joys to elevate, 
no future promises to cheer him, rendered him, if that were 
possible, darker and gloomier, and more mournful. 

The spirits of the departed seemed to hover about him, for- 
bidding him ever again to admit hope or joy as an inmate to 
his desolate heart ; and, wrapt in these dark phantasies, with 
his brow bent, and his eyes downcast, he wandered from ter- 
race to terrace through the garden, until he reached its farthest 
boundary, and then passed out into the park, through which he 
strolled, almost unconscious whither, until he came to the great 
deer-fence of the utmost glen, through a wicket of which, just 
as the sun was setting, he entered into the shadowy wood- 
land. 

Then a whole flood of wild and whirling thoughts rushed 
over his brain at once. He had strolled without a thought 
into the very scene of his happy rambles with the beloved, the 
faithless, the lost Melanie. Carried away by a rush of inex- 
plicable feelings, he walked swiftly onward through the dim 
wildwood path toward the Devil's Drinking-Cup. He came in 
sight of it — a woman sat by its brink, who started to her feet 
at the sound of his approaching footsteps. 

It was Melanie — alone — and if his eyes deceived him not, 
weeping bitterly. 

She gazed at him, at the first, with an earnest, half-alarmed, 
half-inquiring glance, as if she did not recognise his face, and, 

8* 



274 true love's devotion. 

perhaps, apprehended rudeness, if not danger, from the ap- 
proach of a stranger. 

Gradually, however, she seemed in part to recognise him. 
The look of inquiry and alarm gave place to a fixed, glaring, 
icy stare of unmixed dread and horror ; and when he had now 
come to within six or eight paces of her, still without speaking, 
she cried, in a wild, low voice — 

" Great God ! great God ! has he come up from the grave 
to reproach me ! I am true, Raoul ; true to the last, my be- 
loved !" 

And with a long, shivering, low shriek, she staggered, and 
would have fallen to the earth had he not caught her in his 
arms. 

But she had fainted in the excess of superstitious awe, and 
perceived not that it was no phantom's hand, but a most stal- 
wart arm of human mould that clasped her to the heart of the 
living Raoul de St. Renan. 



THE CONFIDENCE OF YOUTH. 275 



PART III. 

"For there were seen in that dark wall, 
Two niches, narrow, dark, and tall. 
Who enters by such grisly door, 
Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more." — Walter Scott. 

It would be wonderful, were it not of daily occurrence, and 
to be observed by all who give attention to the characteristics 
of the human mind, how quickly confidence, even when shaken 
to its very foundations, and almost obliterated, springs up again, 
and recovers all its strength in the bosoms of the young of 
either sex. 

Let but a {ew more years pass over the heart, and when 
once broken, if it be only by a slight suspicion, or a half unreal 
cause, it will scarce revive again in a lifetime ; nor then, unless 
proofs the strongest and most unquestionable can be adduced 
to overpower the doubts which have well-nigh annihilated it. 

In early life, however, before long contact with the world 
has blunted the susceptibilities, and hardened the sympathies 
of the soul, before the constant experience of the treachery, 
the coldness, the ingratitude of men has given birth to universal 
doubt and general distrust, the shadow vanishes as soon as the 
cloud which cast it is withdrawn, and the sufferer again be- 
lieves, alas ! too often, only to be again deceived. 

Thus it was with St. Renan, who a few moments before had 
given up even the last hope, who had ceased, as he thought, to 
believe even in the possibility of faith or honor among men, of 
constancy, or purity, or truth, in women, no sooner saw his Me- 
lanie, whom he knew to be the wife of another, solitary and in 
tears, no sooner felt her inanimate form reclining on his bosom, 



276 true love's devotion. 

than he was prepared to believe anything, rather than believe 
her false. 

Indeed, her consternation at his appearance, her evident dis- 
may, not unnatural in an age wherein skepticism and infidelity 
were marvellously mingled with credulity and superstition, her 
clear conviction that it was not. himself in mortal blood and 
being, did go far to establish the fact, that she had been deceived 
either casually or — which was far more probable — by foul ar- 
tifice, into the belief that her beloved and plighted husband was 
no longer with the living. 

The very exclamation which she uttered last, ere she sunk 
senseless into his arms, uttered, as she imagined, in the pres- 
ence of the immortal spirit of the injured dead, " I am true, 
Raoul — true to the last, my beloved !" rang in his ears with a 
power and a meaning which convinced him of her veracity. 

" She could not lie !" he muttered to himself, " in the pres- 
ence of the living dead ! God be praised ! she is true, and we 
shall yet be happy !" 

How beautiful she looked, as she lay there, unconscious and 
insensible even of her own existence. If time and maturity 
had improved Raoul's person, and added the strength and maj- 
esty of manhood to the grace and pliability of youth, infinitely 
more had it bestowed on the beauty of his betrothed. He had 
left her a beautiful girl just blooming out of girlhood, he found 
her a mature, full-blown woman, with all the flush and flower 
of complete feminine perfection, before one charm has become 
too luxuriant, or one drop of the youthful dew exhaled from the 
new expanded blossom. 

She had shot up, indeed, to a height above the ordinary 
stature of women — straight, erect, and graceful as a young 
poplar, slender, yet full withal, exquisitely and voluptuously 
rounded, and with every sinuous line and swelling curve of her 
soft form full of the poetry and beauty of both repose and motion. 



THE FAIR INSENSIBLE. 277 

Her complexion was pale as alabaster ; even her cheeks, ex- 
cept when some sudden tide of passion, or some strong emotion 
sent the impetuous blood coursing thither more wildly than its 
wont, were colorless, but there was nothing sallow or sickly, 
nothing of that which is ordinarily understood by the word pal- 
lid, in their clear, warm, transparent purity ; nothing, in a word, 
of that lividness which the French, with more accuracy than 
we, distinguish from the healthful paleness which is so beauti- 
ful in southern women. 

Her hair, profuse almost to redundance, was perfectly black, 
but of that warm and lustrous blackness which is probably the 
hue expressed by the ancient Greeks by the term hyacinthine, 
and which in certain lights has a purplish metallic gloss play- 
ing over it, like the varying reflections on the back of the raven. 
Her strongly defined, and nearly straight eyebrows, were dark 
as night, as were the long, silky lashes which were displayed 
in clear relief against the fair, smooth cheek, as the lids lay 
closed languidly over the bright blue eyes. 

It was a minute or two before Melanie moved or gave any 
symptoms of recovering from her fainting fit, and during those 
minutes the lips of Raoul had been pressed so often and so 
warmly to those of the fair insensible, that had any spark of 
perception remained to her, the fond and lingering pressure 
could not have failed to call the " purple light of love," to her 
ingenuous face. 

At length a long, slow shiver ran through the form of the 
senseless girl, and thrilled, like the touch of the electric wire, 
every nerve in St. Renan's body. 

Then the soft rosy lips were unclosed, and forth rushed the 
ambrosial breath in a long, gentle sigh, and the beautiful bust 
heaved and undulated, like the bosom of the calm sea, when 
the first breathings of the coming storm steal over it, and wake, 
as if by sympathy, its deep pulsations. 



27S true love's devotion. 

He clasped her closer to his heart, half-fearful that when 
life and perfect consciousness should be restored to that, ex- 
quisite frame, it would start from his embrace, if not in anger 
or alarm, at least as if from a forbidden and illicit pleasure. 

Gradually a faint rosy hue, slight as the earliest blushes of 
the morning sky, crept over her white cheeks, and deepened 
into a rich passionate flush ; and at the same moment the azure- 
tinctured lids were unclosed slowly, and the large, radiant, 
bright blue eyes beamed up into his own, half languid still, but 
gleaming through their dewy languor, with an expression which 
he must have been, indeed, blind to mistake for aught but the 
strongest of unchanged, unchangeable affection. 

It was evident that she knew him now ; that the momentary 
terror, arising rather, perhaps, from fear than from superstition, 
which had converted the young ardent soldier into a visitant 
from beyond those gloomy portals through which no visitant 
returns, had passed from her mind, and that she had already 
recognised, although she spoke not, her living lover. 

And though she recognised him, she sought not to withdraw 
herself from the enclosure of his sheltering arms, but lay there 
on his bosom, with her head reclined on his shoulder, and her 
eyes drinking long draughts of love from his fascinated gaze, 
as if she were his own, and that her appropriate place of refuge. 

" Oh! Raoul," she exclaimed, at length, in a low, soft whis- 
per, " is it, indeed, you — you, whom I have so long wept as 
dead — you, whom I was even now weeping as one lost to me 
for ever, when you are thus restored to me ?" 

" It is I, Melanie," he answered mournfully, " it is I, alive, 
and in health ; but better far had I been in truth dead, as they 
have told you, rather than thus a survivor of all happiness, of 
all hopes ; spared only from the grave to know you false, and 
myself forgotten." 

" Oh, no, Raoul, not false !" she cried wildly, as she started 



THE lovers' interview. 279 

from his arms, " oh, not forgotten ! think you," she added, blush- 
ing crimson, " that had I loved any but you, that had I not 
loved you with my whole heart and being, I had lain thus on 
your bosom, thus endured your caresses ? Oh, no, no, never 
false ! nor for one moment forgotten ?" 

" But what avails it, if you do love no other — what profits it, 
if you do love me ? Are you not — are you not, false girl — 
alas ! that these lips should speak it — the wife of another — 
the promised mistress of the king ?" 

"I — I — Raoul !" she exclaimed, with such a blending of 
wonder and loathing in her face, such an expression of indig- 
nation on her tongue, that her lover perceived at once, that, 
whatever might be the infamy of her father, of her husband, of 
this climax of falsehood and self-degradation, she, at least, was 
guiltless. 

" The mistress of the king ! what king ? what mean you ? 
are you distraught V ' 

" Ha ! you are ignorant, you are innocent of that, then. 
You are not yet indoctrinated into the noble uses for which 
your honorable lord intends you. It is the town's talk, Mela- 
nie. How is it you, whom it most concerns, alone have not 
heard it ?" 

" Raoul," she said, earnestly, imploringly, " I know not if 
there be any meaning in your words, except to punish me, to 
torture me, for what you deem my faithlessness, but if there be, 
I implore you, I conjure you, by your father's noble name, by 
your mother's honor, show me the worst ; but listen to me first, 
for by the God that made us both, and now hears my words, I 
am not faithless." 

" Not faithless ? Are you not the wife of another ?" 

" No !" she replied enthusiastically. " I am not. For I am 
yours, and while you live I can not wed another. Whom God 
hath joined man can not put asunder." 



280 TRUE LOVES DEVOTION. 

" I fear me that plea will avail us little," Raoul answered. 
11 But say on, dearest Melanie, and believe that there is nothing 
you ean ask which I will not give you gladly — even if it were 
my own life-blood. Say on, so shall we best arrive at the 
truth of this intricate and black affair." 

" Mark me, then, Raoul, for every word I shall speak is as 
true as the sun in heaven. It is near two years now since we 
heard that you had fallen in battle, and that your body had been 
carried off by the barbarians. Long, long I hoped and prayed, 
but prayers and hopes were alike in vain. I wrote to you 
often, as I promised, but no line from you has reached me 
since the day when you sailed for India, and that made me 
fear that the dread news was true. But at the last, to make 
assurance doubly sure, all my own letters were returned to me 
six months since, with their seals unbroken, and an endorse- 
ment from the authorities in India that the person addressed 
was not to be found. Then hope itself was over ; and my 
father, who never from the first had doubted that you were no 
more — " 

" Out on him ! out on him ! the heartless villain !" the young 
man interrupted her indignantly. " He knows, as well as I 
myself, that I am living ; although it is no fault of his or his co- 
adjutors that I am so. He knows not as yet, however, that I 
am here; but he shall know it ere long to his cost, my Melanie." 

"At least," she answered in a faltering voice, "at least he 
swore to me that you were dead ; and never having ceased to 
persecute me, since the day that fatal tidings reached us, to be- 
come the wife of La Rochederrien, now marquis de Ploermel, 
he now became doubly urgent — " 

" And you Melanie ! you yielded ! I had thought you would 
have died sooner." 

" I had no choice but to yield, Raoul. Or at least but the 
choice of that old man's hand, or an eternal dungeon. The 



A HELLISH COMPACT. 281 

lettres de cachet were signed, and you dead, and on the condi- 
tions I extorted from the marquis, I became in name, Raoul, 
only in name, by all my hopes of heaven ' the wife of the man 
whom you pronounce, wherefore, I can not dream, the basest 
of mankind. Now tell me." 

" And did it never strike you as being wonderful and most 
unnatural that this Ploermel, who is neither absolutely a 
dotard nor an old woman, should accept your hand upon this 
condition ?" 

" I was too happy to succeed in extorting it to think much 
of that," she answered. 

" Extorted /" replied Raoul bitterly ; " and how, I pray you, 
is this condition which you extorted ratified or made valid ?" 

" It is signed by himself, and witnessed by my own father, 
that, being I regard myself the wife of the dead, he shall ask 
no more of familiarity from me than if I were the bride of 
heaven !" 

" The double villains !" 

" But wherefore villains, Raoul ?" exclaimed Melanie. 

" I tell you, girl, it is a compact — a base, hellish compact — ■ 
with the foul despot, the disgrace of kings, the opprobrium of 
France, who sits upon the throne, dishonoring it daily ! A com- 
pact such as yet was never entered into by a father and a hus- 
band, even of the lowest of mankind ! A compact to deliver 
you a spotless virgin-victim to the vile-hearted and luxurious 
tyrant. Curses ! a thousand curses on his soul ! and on my 
own soul ! who have fought and bled for him, and all to meet 
with this, as my reward of service '" 

" Great God ! can these things be," she exclaimed, almost 
fainting with horror and disgust. " Can these things indeed 
be 1 But speak, Raoul, speak ; how can you know all this ?" 

" I tell you, Melanie, it is the talk, the very daily, hourly 
gossip of the streets, the alleys, nay, even the very kennels of 



282 true love's devotion. 

Paris. Every one knows it — every one believes it, from the 
monarch in the Louvre to the lowest butcher of the Faubourg 
St. Antoine ! 

"And they believe it — of me, of me, they believe this 
infamy !" 

" With this addition, if any addition were needed, that you 
are not a deceived victim, but a willing and proud participator 
in the shame." 

"I will — that is — "she corrected herself, speaking very 
rapidly and energetically — "I would die sooner. But there 
is no need now to die. You have come back to me, and all 
will yet go well with us !" 

" It never can go well with us again," St. Renan answered 
gloomily. " The king never yields his purpose, he is as tena- 
cious in his hold as reckless in his promptitude to seize. And 
they are paid beforehand." 

" Paid !" exclaimed the girl, shuddering at the word. " What 
atrocity. How paid ?" 

" How, think you, did your good father earn his title and the 
rich governorship of Morlaix ? What great deeds were reward- 
ed to La Rochederrien by his marquisate, and this captaincy of 
musquetaires. You know not yet, young lady, what virtue 
there is now-a-days in being the accommodating father, or the 
convenient husband of a beauty !" 

" You speak harshly, St. Renan, and bitterly." 

" And if I do, have I not cause enough for bitterness and 
harshness ?" he replied almost angrily. 

" Not against me, Raoul." 

"I am not bitter against you, Melanie. And yet — and 
yet—" 

" And yet what, Raoul ?" 

" And yet had you resisted three days longer, we might have 
been saved — you might have been mine — " 



NOW OR NEVER ! 283 

" I am yours, Raoul de St. Renan. Yours, ever and for ever ! 
No one's but only yours." 

" You speak but madness — your vow — the sacrament!*' 

" To the winds Avith my vow — to the abyss with the fraud- 
ful sacrament !" she cried, almost fiercely. " By sin it was ob- 
tained and sanctioned — in sin let it perish. I say — I swear, 
Raoul, if you will take me, I am yours." 

" Mine ? Mine ?" cried the young man, half bewildered. 
" How mine, and when ?" 

" Thus," she replied, casting herself upon his breast, and 
winding her arms around his neck, and kissing his lips pas- 
sionately and often. " Thus, Raoul, thus, and now !" 

He returned her embrace fondly once, but the next instant 
he removed her almost forcibly from his breast, and held her 
at arm's length. 

" No, no !" he exclaimed, " not thus, not thus ! If at all, 
honestly, openly, holily, in the face of day ! May my soul 
perish, ere cause come through me why you should ever blush 
to show your front aloft among the purest and the proudest. 
No, no, not thus, my own Melanie !" 

The girl burst into a paroxysm of tears and sobbing, through 
which she hardly could contrive to make her interrupted and 
faltering words audible. 

u If not now," she said at length, " it will never be. For, 
hear me, Raoul, and pity me, to-morrow they are about to drag 
me to Paris." 

The lover mused for several moments very deeply, and then 
replied, " Listen to me, Melanie. If you are in earnest, if you 
are true, and can be firm, there may yet be hapoiness in store 
for us, and that very shortly." 

" Do you doubt me, Raoul ?" 

" I do not doubt you, Melanie. But ever as in my own 
wildest rapture, even to gain my own extremest bliss, I would 



284 true love's devotion. 

not do aught that could possibly cast one shadow on your pure 
renown, so, mark me, would I not take you to my heart were 
there one spot, though it were but as a speck in the all-glorious 
sun, upon the brightness of your purity." 

*' I believe you, Raoul. I feel, I know that my honor, that 
my purity is all in all to you." 

" I would die a thousand deaths," he made answer, " ere 
even a false report should fall on it, to mar its virgin whiteness. 
Marvel not then that I ask as much of you." 

" Ask anything, St. Renan. It is granted." 

" In France we can hope for nothing. But there are other 
lands than France. We must fly; and thanks to these docu- 
ments which you have wrung from them, and the proofs which 
I can easily obtain, this cursed marriage can be set aside, and 
then, in honor and in truth you can be mine, mine own Me- 
lanie." 

" God grant it so, Raoul." 

" It shall be so, beloved. Be you but firm, and it may be 
done right speedily. I will sell the estates of St. Renan — by 
a good chance, supposing me dead, the lord of Yrvilliac was in 
treaty for it with my uncle. That can be arranged forthwith. 
Conduct yourself according to your wont, cool and as distant 
as may be with this villain of Ploermel ; avoid above all things 
to let your father see that you are buoyed by any hope, or 
moved by any passion. Treat the king with deliberate scorn, 
if he approach you over-boldly. Beware how you eat or drink 
in his company, for he is capable of all things, even of drug- 
ging you into insensibility, and here," he added, taking a small 
poniard, of exquisite workmanship, with a gold hilt and scab- 
bard, from his girdle, and giving it to her, " wear this at all 
times, and if he dare attempt violence, were he thrice a king, 
use it .'" 

M 1 will — I will — trust me, Raoul ! I will use it, and that to 



LITTLE ROSE FAVERNEY. 285 

his sorrow ! My heart is strong, and my hand brave now — 
now that I know you to be living. Now that I have hope to 
nerve me, I will fear nothing, but dare all things." 

11 Do so, do so, my beloved, and you shall have no cause to 
fear, for I will be ever near you. I will tarry here but one 
day ; and ere you reach Paris, I will be there, be certain. 
Within ten days, I doubt not I can convert my acres into gold, 
and ship that gold across the narrow straits ; and that done, 
the speed of horses, and a swift ship will soon have us safe 
in England ; and if that land be not so fair, or so dear as our 
own France, at least there are no tyrants there, like this Louis ; 
and there are laws, they say, which guard the meanest man as 
safely and as surely as the proudest noble." 

" A happy land, Raoul. I would we were there even now." 

" We will be there ere long, fear nothing. But tell me, 
whom have you near your person on whom we may rely. 
There must be some one through whom we may communicate 
in Paris. It may be that I shall require to see you." 

"Oh! you remember Rose, Raoul — little Rose Faverney, 
who has lived with me ever since she was a child — a pretty 
little black-eyed damsel." 

" Surely I do remember her. Is she with you yet ? That 
will do admirably, then, if she be faithful, as I think she is ; 
and unless I forget, what will serve us better yet, she loves my 
page Jules de Marlien. He has not forgotten her, I promise 
you." 

"Ah! Jules — we grow selfish, I believe, as we grow old, 
Raoul. I have not thought to ask after one of your people. 
So Jules remembers little Rose, and loves her yet ; that will 
indeed, secure her, even had she been doubtful, which she is 
not. She is as true as steel — truer, I fear, than even I ; for 
she reproached me bitterly four evenings since, and swore she 
would be buried alive, much more willingly imprisoned, than 



286 true love's devotion. 

be married to the marquis de Ploermel, though she was only 
plighted to the vicomte Raoul's page ! Oh ! we may trust in 
her with all certainty." 

" Send her, then, on the very same night that you reach 
Paris, so soon as it is dark, to my uncle's house in the place 
de St. Louis. I think she knows it, and let her ask — not for 
me — but for Jules. Ere then I will know something definite 
of our future ; and fear nothing, love, all shall go well with us. 
Love such as ours, with faith, and right, and honesty, and 
honor to support it, can not fail to win, blow what wind may. 
And now, sweet Melanie, the night is wearing onward, and I 
fear that they may miss you. Kiss me, then, once more, sweet 
girl, and farewell." 

" Not for the last, Raoul," she cried, with a gay smile, cast- 
ing herself once again into her lover's arms, and meeting his 
lips with a long, rapturous kiss. 

" Not by a thousand, and a thousand ! But now, angel, fare- 
well for a little space. I hate to bid you leave me, but I dare 
not ask yon to stay ; even now I tremble lest you should be 
missed and they should send to seek you. For were they but 
to suspect that I am here and have seen you, it would, at the 
best, double all our difficulties; fare you well, sweetest Melanie." 

" Fare you well," she replied ; " fare you well, my own best 
beloved Raoul," and she put up the glittering dagger, as she 
spoke, into the bosom of her dress ; but as she did so, she 
paused and said, " I wish this had not been your first gift to 
me, Raoul, for they say that such gifts are fatal, to love at least, 
if not to life." 

"Fear not! fear not!" answered the young man, laughing 
gayly, " our love is immortal. It may defy the best steel blade 
that was ever forged on Milan stithy to cut it asunder. Fare 
you — but, hush ! who comes here ; it is too late, yet fly — fly, 
Melanie !" 



AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER. 287 

But she did not fly, for as he spoke, a tall, gayly-dressed 
cavalier burst through the coppice on the side next the chateau 
d'Argenson, exclaiming: "So, my fair cousin! — this is your 
faith to my good brother of Ploermel is it ?" 

But, before he spoke, she had whispered to Raoul, " It is 
the chevalier de Pontrein, de Ploermel's half-brother. Alas ! 
all is lost." 

" Not so ! not so !" answered her lover, also in a whisper, 
" leave him to me, I will detain him. Fly, by the upper path- 
way and through the orchard to the chateau, and remember — 
you have not seen this dog. So much deceit is pardonable. 
Fly, I say, Melanie. Look not behind for your life, whatever 
you may hear, nor tarry. All rests now on your steadiness and 
courage." 

" Then all is safe," she answered firmly and aloud, and with- 
out casting a glance toward the cavalier, who was now within 
ten paces of her side, or taking the smallest notice of his words, 
she kissed her hand to St. Renan, and bounded up the steep 
path, in the opposite direction, with so fleet a step as soon car- 
ried her beyond the sound of all that followed, though that was 
neither silent nor of small interest. 

" Do you not hear me, madam. By Heaven ! but you carry 
it off easily !" cried the young cavalier, setting off at speed, as 
if to follow her. " But you must run swifter than a roe if you 
look to 'scape me ;" and with the words he attempted to rush 
past Raoul, of whom he affected, although he knew him well, 
to take no notice. 

But in that intent he was quickly frustrated, for the young 
count grasped him by the collar as he endeavored to pass, with 
a grasp of iron, and said to him in an ironical tone of excessive 
courtesy. 

" Sweet sir, I fear you have forgotten me, that you should 
give me the go-by thus, when it is so long a time since we 
have met, and we such dear friends, too." 



288 TRUE LOVES DEVOTION. 

But the young man was in earnest, and very angry, and 
struggled to release himself from St. Renan's grasp, until, hav- 
ing no strong reasons for forbearance, but many for the reverse, 
Raoul, too, lost his temper. 

" By Heaven !" he exclaimed, " I believe that you do not 
know me, or you would not dare to suppose that I would suffer 
you to follow a lady who seeks not your presence or society." 

" Let me go, St. Renan !" returned the other fiercely, laying 
his hand on his dagger's hilt. " Let me go, villain, or you 
shall rue it !" 

" Villain !" Raoul repeated calmly, " villain ! It is so you 
call me, hey ?" and he did instantly release him, drawing his 
sword as he did so. " Draw, De Pontrien — that word has 
cost you your life !" 

" Yes, villain !" repeated the other, " villain to your teeth ! 
But you lie ! it is your life that is forfeit — forfeit to my broth- 
er's honor !" 

" Ha ! ha !" laughed Raoul, savagely. " Ha-ha-ha-ha ! your 
brother's honor ! who the devil ever heard before of a pandar's 
honor — even if he were Sir Pandarus to a king? Sa ! sa ! 
have at you !" 

Their blades crossed instantly, and they fought fiercely, and 
with something like equality for some ten minutes. The chev- 
alier de Pontrien was far more than an ordinary swordsman, 
and he was in earnest, not angry, but savage and determined, 
and full of bitter hatred, and a fixed resolution to punish the 
familiarity of Raoul with his brother's wife. But that was a 
thing easier proposed than executed ; for St. Renan, who had 
left France as a boy already a perfect master of fence, had 
learned the practice of the blade against the swordsmen of the 
East, the finest swordsmen of the world, and had added to 
skill, science, and experience, the iron nerves, the deep breath, 
and the unwearied strength of a veteran. 



A FATAL COMBAT. 289 

If lie fought slowly, it was that he fought carefully — that he 
meant the first wound to be the last. He was resolved that De 
Pontrien never should return home again to divulge what he 
had seen, and he had the coolness, the skill, and the power to 
carry out his resolution. 

At the end of ten minutes he attacked. Six times within as 
many seconds he might have inflicted a severe, perhaps a 
deadly wound on his antagonist ; and he, too, perceived it, but 
it would not have been surely mortal. 

" Come, come !" cried De Pontrien, at last, growing impa- 
tient and angry at the idea of being played with. " Come, sir, 
you are my master, it seems ; make an end of this." 

" Do not be in a hurry," replied St. Renan, with a deadly 
smile, " it will come soon enough. There ! will that suit you?" 

And with the word he made a treble feint and lounged home. 
So true was the thrust that the point pierced the very cavity 
of his heart. So strongly was it sent home that the hilt smote 
heavily on his breast-bone. He did not speak or groan, but 
drew one short, broken sigh, and fell dead on the instant. 

" The fool !" muttered St. Renan. " Wherefore did he med- 
dle where he had no business 1 But what the devil shall I do 
with him ? He must not be found, or all will out — and that 
were ruin." 

As he spoke, a distant clap of thunder was heard to the east- 
ward, and a few heavy drops of rain began to fall, while a 
heavy mass of black thunder-clouds began to rise rapidly 
against the wind. 

" There will be a fierce storm in ten minutes, which will 
soon wash out all this evidence," he said, looking down at the 
trampled and blood-stained greensward. " One hour hence, 
and there will not be a sign of this, if I can but dispose of him. 
Ha !" he added, as a quick thought struck him, " the Devil's 
Drinking-Cup ! Enough ! it is done !" 

13 



290 true love's devotion. 

Within a minute's space he had swathed the corpse tightly 
in the cloak, which had fallen from the wretched man's shoul- 
ders as the fray began, bound it about the waist by the scarf, 
to which he attached firmly an immense block of stone, which 
lay at the brink of the fearful well, which was now — for the 
tide was up — brimful of white boiling surf, and holding his 
breath atween resolution and abhorrence, hurled it into the abyss. 

It sunk instantly, so well was the stone secured to it ; and 
the fate of the chevalier de Pontrien never was suspected, for 
that fatal pool never gave up its dead, nor will until the judg- 
ment-day. 

Meantime the flood-gates of heaven were opened, and a 
mimic torrent, rushing down the dark glen, soon obliterated 
every trace of that stern, short, affray. 

Calmly Raoul strode homeward, and untouched by any con- 
science, for those were hard and ruthless times, and he had 
undergone so much wrong at the hands of his victim's nearest 
relatives, and dearest friends, that it was no great marvel if his 
blood were heated, and his heart pitiless. 

" I will have masses said for his soul in Paris," he muttered 
to himself; and therewith, thinking that he had more than dis- 
charged all a Christian's duty, he dismissed all further thoughts 
of the matter, and actually hummed a gay opera-tune as he 
strode homeward through the pelting storm, thinking how soon 
he should be blessed by the possession of his own Melanie. 

No observation was made on his absence, by either the 
steward or any of the servants, on his return, though he was 
well-nigh drenched with rain, for they remembered his old 
half-boyish, half-romantic habits, and it seemed natural to them 
that on his first return, after so many years of wandering, to 
scenes endeared to him by innumerable fond recollections, he 
should wander forth alone to muse with his own soul in secret. 

There was great joy, however, in the hearts of the old ser- 



A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE. 291 

vitors and tenants in consequence of his return, and on the fol- 
lowing morning, and still on the third day, that feeling of joy 
and security continued to increase, for it soon got abroad that 
the young lord's grief and gloominess of mood were wearing 
hourly away, and that his lip, and his whole countenance, were 
often lighted up with an expression which showed, as they 
fondly augured, that days and years of happiness were yet in 
store for him. 

It was not long before the tidings reached him that the house 
of D'Argenson was in great distress concerning the sudden and 
unaccountable disappearance of the chevalier de Pontrien, who 
had walked out, it was said, on the preceding afternoon, prom- 
ising to be back at supper-time, and who had not been heard 
of since. 

Raoul smiled grimly at the intimation, but said nothing, and 
the narrator judging that St. Renan was not likely to take of- 
fence at the imputations against the family of Ploermel, pro- 
ceeded to inform him, that in the opinion of the neighborhood 
there was nothing very mysterious, after all, in the disappear- 
ance of the chevalier, since he was known to be very heavily 
in debt, and was threatened with deadly feud by the old Sieur 
de Plouzurde, whose fair daughter he had deceived to her un- 
doing. Robinet the smuggler's boat, had been seen off the 
Penmarcks when the moon was setting, and no one doubted 
that the gay gallant was by this time off the coast of Spain. 

To all this, though he affected to pay little heed to it, Raoul 
inclined an eager and attentive ear, and as a reward for his 
patient listening, was soon informed, furthermore, that the bride- 
groom marquis and the beautiful bride, being satisfied, it was 
supposed, of the chevalier's safety, had departed for Paris, their 
journey having been postponed only in consequence of the 
research for the missing gentleman, from the morning when it 
should have taken place, to the afternoon of the same day. 



292 

For two days longer did Raoul tarry at St. Renan, apparently 
as free from concern or care about the fair Melanie de Ploer- 
mel, as if he had never heard her name. And on this point 
alone, for all men knew that he once loved her, did his conduct 
excite any observation, or call forth comment. His silence, 
however, and external nonchalance were attributed at all hands 
to a proper sense of pride and self-respect ; and as the territo- 
rial vassals of those days held themselves in some degree en- 
nobled or disgraced by the high bearing or recreancy of their 
lords, it was very soon determined by the men of St. Renan 
that it would have been very disgraceful and humiliating had 
their lord, the lord of Duarnenez and St. Renan, condescended 
to trouble his head about the little demoiselle d'Argenson. 

Meanwhile our lover, whose head was in truth occupied 
about no other thing than that very same little demoiselle, for 
whom he was believed to feel a contempt so supreme, had thor- 
oughly investigated all his affairs, thereby acquiring from his 
old steward the character of an admirable man of business, had 
made himself perfectly master of the real value of his estates, 
droits, dues, and all connected with the same, and had packed 
up all his papers, and such of his valuables as were movable, 
so as to be transported easily by means of pack-horses. 

This done, leaving orders for a retinue of some twenty of 
his best and most trusty servants to follow him as soon as the 
train and relays of horses could be prepared, he set off with two 
followers only to return riding post, as he had come from Paris. 

He was three days behind the lady of his love at starting ; 
but the journey from the western extremity of Bretagnc to 
the metropolis is at all times a long and tedious undertaking ; 
and as the roads and means of conveyance were in those days, 
he found it no difficult task to catch up with the carriages of 
the marquis, and to pass them on the road long enough before 
they reached Paris. 



PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT. 293 

Indeed, though he had set out three days behind them, he 
succeeded in anticipating their arrival by as many, and had 
succeeded in transacting more than half the business on which 
his heart was bent, before he received the promised visit from 
the pretty Rose Faverney, who, prompted by her desire to re- 
new her intimacy with the handsome page, came punctual to 
her appointment. He had not, of course, admitted the good 
old churchman, his uncle, into all his secrets ; he had not even 
told him that he had seen the lady, much less what were his 
hopes and views concerning her. 

But he did tell him that he was so deeply mortified and 
wounded by her desertion, that he had determined to sell his 
estates, to leave France for ever, and to betake himself to the 
new American colonies on the St. Lawrence. 

There was not in the state of France in those days much to 
admire, or much to induce wise men to exert their influence 
over the young and noble, to induce them to linger in the neigh- 
borhood of a court which was in itself a very sink of corrup- 
tion. It was with no great difficulty, therefore, that Raoul ob- 
tained the concurrence of his uncle, who was naturally a friend 
to gallant and adventurous daring. The estates of St. Renan, 
the old castle and the home park, with a few hundred acres in 
its immediate vicinity only excepted, were converted into gold 
with almost unexampled rapidity. 

A part of the gold was in its turn converted into a gallant 
brigantine of some two hundred tons, which was despatched 
at once along the coast of Douarnenez bay, there to take in a 
crew of the hardy fishermen and smugglers of that stormy shore, 
all men well known to Raoul de St. Renan, and well content 
to follow their young lord to the world's end, should such be 
his will. 

Here, indeed, I have anticipated something the progress of 
events, for hurry it as much as he could in those days, St. 



294 true love's devotion. 

Renan could not, of course, work miracles ; and though the 
brigantine was purchased, where she lay ready to sail, at 
Calais, the instant the sale of St. Renan was determined, with- 
out awaiting the completion of the transfer, or the payment of 
the purchase-money, many days had elapsed before the news 
could be sent from the capital to the coast, and the vessel de- 
spatched to Brittany. 

Everything was, however, determined ; nay, everything was 
in process of accomplishment before the arrival of the fair 
lady and her nominal husband, so that at the first interview 
with Rose, Raoul was enabled to lay all his plans before her, 
and to promise that within a month at the farthest, everything 
would be ready for their certain and safe evasion. 

He did not fail, however, on that account to impress upon 
the pretty maiden — who, as Jules was to accompany his lord, 
though not a hint of whither had been breathed to any one, 
was doubly devoted to the success of the scheme — that a 
method must be arranged by which he could have daily inter- 
views with the lovely Melanie ; and this she promised that she 
would use all her powers to induce her mistress to permit, say- 
ing, with a gay laugh, that her permission gained, all the rest 
was easy. 

The next day, the better to avoid suspicion, Raoul was pre- 
sented to the king, in full court, by his uncle, on the double 
event of his return from India, and of his approaching departure 
for the colony of Acadie, for which it was his present purpose 
to sue for his majesty's consent and approbation. 

The king was in great good humor, and nothing could have 
been more flattering or more gracious than Raoul de St. Renan's 
reception. Louis had heard that very morning of the fair 
Melanie's arrival in the city, and nothing could have fallen out 
more apropos than the intention of her quondam lover to depart 



AN ACCOMMODATING SOVEREIGN. 295 

at this very juncture, and that, too, for an indefinite period, from 
the land of his birth. 

Rejoicing inwardly at his good fortune, and of course, ascri- 
bing the conduct of the young man to pique and disappointment, 
the king, while he loaded him with honors and attentions, did 
not neglect to encourage him in his intention of departing on a 
very early day, and even offered to facilitate his departure by 
making some remissions in his behalf from the strict regula- 
tions of the Douane. 

All this was perfectly comprehensible to Raoul ; but he was 
far too wise to suffer any one, even his uncle, to perceive that 
he understood it ; and while he profited to the utmost by the 
readiness which he found in high places to smooth away all 
the difficulties from his path, he laughed in his sleeve as he 
thought what would be the fury of the licentious and despotic 
sovereign when he should discover that the very steps which 
he had taken to remove a dangerous rival, had actually cast 
the lady into that rival's arms. 

Nor had this measure of Raoul's been less effectual in spar- 
ing Melanie much grief and vexation, than it had proved in 
facilitating his own schemes of escape ; for on that very day, 
within an hour after his reception of St. Renan, the king caused 
information to be conveyed to the marquis de Ploermel that the 
presentation of madame should be deferred until such time as the 
vicomte de St. Renan should have set sail for Acadie, which 
it was expected would take place within a month at the furthest. 

That evening when Rose Faverney was admitted to the young 
lord's presence, through the agency of the enamored Jules, 
she brought him permission to visit her lady at midnight in her 
own chamber ; and she brought with her a plan, sketched by 
Melanie's own hand, of the garden, through which, by the aid 
of a master-key and a rope-ladder, he was to gain access to 
her presence. 



296 true love's devotion. 

" My lady says, Monsieur Raoul," added the merry girl, with 
a light laugh, " that she admits you only on the faith that you 
will keep the word which you plighted to her, when last you 
met, and on the condition that I shall be present at all your 
interviews with her." 

" Her honor were safe in my hands," replied the young man, 
" without that precaution. But I appreciate the motive, and 
accept the condition." 

"You will remember, then, my lord — at midnight. There 
will be one light burning in the window, when that is extin- 
guished, all will be safe, and you may enter fearless ? Will 
you remember ?" 

" Nothing but death will prevent me. Nor that, if the spir- 
its of the dead may visit what they love best on earth. So tell 
her, Rose. Farewell !" 

Four hours afterward St. Renan stood in the shadow of a 
dense trellice in the garden, watching the moment when that 
love-beacon should expire. The clock of St. Germain l'Aux- 
erre struck twelve, and on the instant all was darkness. An- 
other minute and the lofty wall was scaled, and Melanie was 
in the arms of Raoul. 

It was a strange, grim, gloomy, gothic chamber, full of queer 
niches and recesses of old stone-work. The walls were hung 
with gilded tapestries of Spanish leather, but were interrupted 
in many places by the antique stone groinings of alcoves and 
cupboards, one of which, close beside the mantlepiece, was 
closed by a curiously carved door of heavy oak-work, itself 
sunk above a foot within the embrasure of the wall. 

Lighted as it was only by the flickering of the wood-fire on 
the hearth, for the thickness of the walls, and the damp of the 
old vaulted room, rendered a fire acceptable, even at midsum- 
mer, that antique chamber appeared doubly grim and ghostly ; 
but little cared the young lovers for its dismal seeming ; and 



THE lovers' interviews. 297 

if they noticed it at all, it was but to jest at the contrast of its 
appearance with the happy hours which they passed within it. 

Happy, indeed, they were — almost too happy — though as 
pure and guiltless as if they had been hours spent within a 
nunnery of the strictest rule, and in the presence of a sainted 
abbess. 

Happy, indeed, they were ; and, although brief, oft repeated. 
For, henceforth, not a night passed but Raoul visited his Me- 
lanie, and tarried there enjoying her sweet converse, and bear- 
ing to her every day glad tidings of the process of his schemes, 
and the certainty of their escape, until the approach of morn- 
ing warned him to make good his retreat ere envious eyes 
should be abroad to make espials. 

And ever the page, Jules, kept watch at the ladder-foot in 
the garden : and the true maiden, Rose, who ever sate within 
the chamber with the lovers during their stolen interviews, 
guarded the door, with ears as keen as those of Cerberus. 

A month had passed, and the last night had come, and all 
was successful — all was ready. The brigantine lay manned 
and armed, and at all points prepared for her brief voyage at 
an instant's notice at Calais. Relays of horses were at each 
post on the road. Raoul had taken formal leave of the de- 
lighted monarch. His passport was signed — his treasures 
were on board his good ship — his pistols were loaded — his 
horses were harnessed for the journey. 

For the last time he scaled the ladder — for the last time he 
stood within the chamber. 

Too happy ! ay, they were too happy on that night, for all 
was done, all was won; and nothing but the last step remained, 
and that step so easy. The next morning Melanie was to go 
forth, as if to early mass, with Rose and a single valet. The 
valet was to be mastered and overthrown as if in a street broil, 
the lady, with her damsel, was to step into a light caleche, 
13* 



298 true love's devotion. 

which should await her, with her lover mounted at its side, and 
hie! for Calais — England — without the risk — the possibility 
of failure. 

That night he would not tarry. He told his happy tidings, 
clasped her to his heart, bid her farewell till to-morrow, and in 
another moment would have been safe — a step sounded close 
to the door. Rose sprang to her feet, with her finger to her 
lip, pointing with her left hand to the deep cupboard-door. 

She was right — there was not time to reach the window — 
at the same instant, as Melanie relighted the lamp, not to be 
taken in mysterious and suspicious darkness, the one door 
closed upon the lover just as the other opened to the husband. 

But rapid and light as were the motions of Raoul, the treach- 
erous door by which he had passed into his concealment, trem- 
bled still as Ploermel entered. And Rose's quick eye saw 
that he marked it. 

But if he saw it, he gave no token, made no allusion to the 
least doubt or suspicion; on the contrary, he spoke more gayly 
and kindly than his wont. He apologized for his untimely in- 
trusion, saying that her father had come suddenly to speak with 
them, concerning her presentation at court, which the king had 
appointed for the next day, and wished, late as it was, to see 
her in the saloon below. 

Nothing doubting the truth of his statement, which Raoul's 
intended departure rendered probable, Melanie started from her 
chair, and telling Rose to wait, for she would be back in an 
instant, hurried out of the room, and took her way toward the 
great staircase. 

The marquis ordered Rose to light her mistress, for the cor- 
ridor was dark ; and as the girl went out to do so, a suppressed 
shriek, and the faint sounds of a momentary scuffle followed, and 
then all was still. 

A hideous smile flitted across the face of De Ploermel, as he 



" FIEL HASTA, LA MUERTE !" 299 

cast himself heavily into an arm-chair, opposite the door of the 
cupboard in which St. Renan was concealed, and taking up a 
silver bell which stood on the table, rung it repeatedly and 
loudly for a servant. 

" Bring wine," he said, as the man entered. " And, hark 
you, the masons are at work in the great hall, and have left 
their tools and materials for building. Let half a dozen of the 
grooms come up hither, and bring with them brick and mortar. 
I hate the sight of that cupboard, and before I sleep this night, 
it shall be built up solid with a good wall of mason-work ; and 
so here's a health to the rats within it, and a long life to them!" 
and he quaffed off the wine in fiendish triumph. 

He spoke so loud, and that intentionally that Raoul heard 
every word that he uttered. 

But if he hoped thereby to terrify the lover into discovering 
himself, and so convicting his fair and innocent wife, the vil- 
lain was deceived. Raoul heard every word — knew his fate 
— knew that one word, one motion would have saved him ; but 
that one word, one motion would have destroyed the fair fame 
of his Melanie. 

The memory of the death of that unhappy Lord of Kerguelen 
came palpably upon his mind in that dread moment, and the 
comments of his dead father. 

" I, at least," he muttered between his hard set teeth, " I at 
least will not be evidence against her. I will die silent — jiel 
hasta, la muerte /" 

And when the brick and mortar were piled by the hands of 
the unconscious grooms, and when the fatal trowels clanged 
and jarred around him, he spake not — stirred not — gave no 
sign. 

Even the savage wretch, De Ploermel, unable to believe in 
the existence of such chivalry, such honor, half doubted if he 



300 true love's devotion. 

"were not deceived, and the cupboard were not untenanted by 
the true victim. 

Higher and higher rose the wall before the oaken door ; and 
by the exclusion of the light of the many torches by which the 
men were working, the victim must have marked, inch by inch, 
the progress of his living immurement. The page, Jules, had 
climbed in silence to the window's ledge, and was looking in, 
an unseen spectator, for he had heard all that passed from 
without, and suspected his lord's presence within the fatal pre- 
cinct. 

But as he saw the wall rise higher — higher — as he saw 
the last brick fastened in its place solid, immovable from with- 
in, and tnat without strife or opposition, he doubted not but that 
there was some concealed exit by which St. Renan had es- 
caped, and he descended hastily and hurried homeward. 

Now came the lady's trial — the trial that shall prove to De 
Ploermel whether his vengeance was complete. She was led 
in with Rose, a prisoner. Lettres de cachet had been obtained, 
when the treason of some wretched subordinate had revealed 
the secret of her intended flight with Raoul ; and the officers 
had seized the wife by the connivance of the shameless hus- 
band. 

" See !" he said, as she entered, " see, the fool suffered him- 
self to be walled up there in silence. There let him die in 
agony. You, madam, may live as long as you please in the 
Bastile, au secret" 

She saw that all was lost — her lover's sacrifice was made — 
she could not save him ! Should she, by a weak divulging Of 
the truth, render his grand devotion fruitless ? Never ! 

Her pale cheek did not turn one shade the paler, but her 
keen eye flashed living fire, and her beautiful lip writhed with 
loathing and scorn irrepressible. 

" It is thou who art the fool !" she said, " who hast made all 



a woman's vengeance. 301 

this coil, to wall up a poor cat in a cupboard, as it is thou who 
art the base knave and shameless pandar, who has attempted 
to do murther, and all to sell thine own wife to a corrupt and 
loathsome tyrant !" 

All stood aghast at her fierce words, uttered with all the elo- 
quence and vehemence of real passion, but none so much as 
Rose, who had never beheld her other than the gentlest of the 
gentle. Now she wore the expression, and spoke with the 
tone of a young Pythoness, full of the fury of the god. 

She sprang forward as she uttered the last words, extricating 
herself from the slight hold of the astonished officers, and rushed 
toward her cowed and craven husband. 

" But in all things, mean wretch," she continued, in tones of 
fiery scorn, " in all things thou art frustrate — thy vengeance 
is naught, thy vile ambition naught, thyself and thy king, fools, 
knaves, and frustrate equally, and now," she added snatching 
the dagger which Raoul had given her from the scabbard, " now 
die, infamous, accursed pandar !" and with the word she buried 
the keen weapon at one quick and steady stroke to the very 
hilt in his base and brutal heart. 

Then, ere the corpse had fallen to the earth, or one hand of 
all those that were stretched out to seize her had touched her 
person, she smote herself mortally with the same reeking 
weapon, and only crying out in a clear, high voice, " Bear wit- 
ness, Rose, bear witness to my honor ! Bear witness all that 
I die spotless !" fell down beside the body of her husband, and 
expired without a struggle or a groan. 

Awfully was she tried, and awfully she died. Rest to her 
soul, if it be possible. 

The caitiff marquis de Ploermel perished, as she had said 
in all things frustrated ; for though his vengeance was in very 
deed complete, he believed that it had failed, and in his very 
agony that failure was his latest and his worst regret. 



302 true love's devotion. 

On the morrow, when St. Renan returned not to his home, 
the page gave the alarm, and the fatal wall was torn down, but 
too late. 

The gallant victim of love's honor was no more. Doomed 
to a lingering death he had died speedily, though by no act of 
his own. A blood vessel had burst within, through the vio- 
lence of his own emotions. Ignorant of the fate of his sweet 
Melanie, he had died as he had lived, the very soul of honor ; 
and when they buried him, in the old chapel of his Breton cas- 
tle, beside his famous ancestors, none nobler lay around him ; 
and the brief epitaph they carved upon his stone was true, at 
least, if it were short and simple, for it ran only thus — 

Uaoni he St. fotnan. 
iTiel Ijastit la Jttuerte. 






LEGENDS 



SCOTLAND. 



PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF MARY STUART, 



CHASTELAR. 

"Fired by an object so sublime, 
What could I choose but strive to climb ? 

And as I strove I fell. 
At least 't is love, when hope is gone, 
Through shame and ruin to love on." — Anon. 

The last flush of day had not yet faded from the west, al- 
though the summer moon was riding above the verge of the 
eastern horizon, in a flood of mellow glory, with the diamond- 
spark of Lucifer glittering in solitary brightness at her side. 
It was one of those enchanting evenings which, peculiar to the 
southern lands of Europe, visit, but at far and fleeting intervals, 
the sterner clime of Britain. Not Italy, however, could her- 
self have boasted a more delicious twilight than this, which 
now was waning into night, above the rude magnificence of 
Scotland's capital. The fantastic dwellings of the city, ridge 
above ridge, loomed broadly to the left, partially veiled by those 
wreaths of vapor, which have been the origin of its provincial 
name ; while, far above the misty indistinctness of the town, 
the glorious castle towered aloft upon its craggy throne, dis- 
playing a hundred fronts of massive shadow, and as many sa- 
lient angles jutting abruptly into sight. The lovely vale of the 



306 CHASTELAR. 

King's park, with its velvet turf and shadowy foliage, shone out 
in quiet lustre from beneath the dark-gray buttresses of Arthur's 
seat ; while from the trim alleys and pleached evergreens, 
which at that day formed a belt of lawn, and shrubbery, and 
royal garden, around the venerable pile of Holyrood, the rich 
song of the throstle — the nightingale of Scotland — came in 
repeated bursts upon the ear. 

Delightful as such an evening must naturally be to all who 
have hearts awake to the influence of sweet sounds and lovely 
sights, how inexpressibly soothing must it seem to one who, 
languishing beneath the ungenial atmosphere of a northern re- 
gion, and sighing for the bluer skies and softer breezes of his 
fatherland, feels himself at once transported, by the unusual 
aspect of the heavens, to the distant home of his regrets ! It 
was, perhaps, some fancied similarity to the nights in which 
he had been wont to court the favor of the high-born dames of 
France with voice and instrument, that had awakened the mel- 
ody of some foreign cavalier, more suitable perchance to the 
light murmurs of the Seine than to the distant booming of the 
seas that lash the coasts of Scotland. Such, however, was the 
illusion produced by the unwonted softness of the hour, that the 
tinkling of a lute and the full, manly voice of the singer did not 
at the moment seem so inconsistent to the spirit of the country 
and of the times as in truth it was. The words were French, 
and the air, though sweet, so melancholy, that it left a vague 
sensation of pain upon the listener — as though none but a heart 
diseased could give birth to notes so plaintive. " Pensez a moi ! 
pensez a moi ! — noble dame — Pensez a moi!" — the burden 
of the strain swelled clearly audible in the deepest tones of 
feeling, although the intermediate words were lost amid the 
accompaniment of the silver strings. Never, perhaps, since 
the unfortunate Chatelain de Coney first chanted his extempo- 
raneous farewell to the lady of his heart, had his simple words 



THE SERENADE. 307 

been sung with taste or execution more appropriate to their sub- 
ject. In truth, it was impossible to listen to the lay without 
feeling a conviction that the heart of the minstrel was in his 
song. There were, moreover, moments in which a practised 
ear might have discovered variations, not in the tune only, but 
in the words, as the singer exerted his unrivalled powers to 
adapt the text, which he had chosen, to his own peculiar cir- 
cumstances ; nor would it have required more than a common 
degree of fancy to have traced the sounds, " O Reine Marie !" 
mingling with the proper refrain of the chant, although it would 
have been less easy to distinguish whether the fervent expression 
with which the words were invested was applied to an object 
of mortal idolatry or of immortal adoration. It would seem, how- 
ever, that there were listeners near, to whom this doubt had 
not so much as once occurred ; for in a shadowy bower, not far 
distant from the spot where the concealed musician sang, there 
stood a group of ladies, drinking with breathless eagerness ev- 
ery note that issued from his lips. Foremost in place, as first 
in rank, was one whose charms have been said and sung, not 
by the poet and the romancer only, but by the muse of history 
herself, who almost seems to have dipped her graver pencil in 
the hues of fiction when describing Mary Stuart of Scotland. 
Her form, rather below than above the middle stature of the 
female form, was fashioned with such perfect elegance, that it 
was equally calculated to exhibit the extremes of grace and 
majesty. Her ringlets of the deepest auburn, glancing in the 
light with a glossy, golden lustre, and melting into shadows of 
dark chestnut ; the statue-like contour of her Grecian head ; 
her eyes, on which no man had ever gazed with impunity to 
his heart — more languid and at the same time far more brilliant 
than those of created beauty ; her mouth, whose wreathed smile 
might have almost tempted angels to descend and worship ; her 
swan-like neck of dazzling whiteness ; and, above all, the glo- 



308 CHASTELAR. 

rious blending of feminine ease with regal dignity — of conde- 
scension and affability toward the meanest of her fellow-men, 
with the exalted consciousness of all that was due, not to her 
rank, but to herself — combined to render her perhaps the love- 
liest, as after-events proved her beyond a doubt the most unfor- 
tunate, of queens or women. Sorrow at this time had scarcely 
cast a shadow on that transparent brow ; or, if an occasional rec- 
ollection of the ill-fated Francis did leave a trace behind, it was 
a sadness of that gentle and spiritualized description which is, 
perhaps, a more attractive expression to be marked in the fea- 
tures of a lovely woman, than the full blaze of happiness and self- 
enjoyment. Simple almost to plainness in her attire, the queen 
of Scotland moved before her four attendant Maries, ten thou- 
sand times more lovely from the contrast of her unadornment to 
the gorgeous dresses of those noble dames, who had been se- 
lected to be near her person, with especial regard, not to ex- 
alted rank alone, or to the distinctive name, which they bore 
in common with their royal mistress, but to intellect, and beauty, 
and all those accomplishments which, general as they are in 
our day, were then at least as highly valued for their rarity, as 
for their intrinsic merits. A robe of sable velvet, with the 
closely-fitted corsage peculiar to the age in which she lived, 
a falling ruff from the fairest looms of Flanders, and the pictu- 
resque head-gear which has ever borne her name, with its dou- 
ble tressure of pearls, and a single string of the same precious 
jewels around her neck, completed Mary's dress, while rust- 
ling trains of many-colored satin, guarded with costly laces and 
stomachers studded with gems, bracelets, and carcanets, and 
chains of goldsmith's work, gleamed on the persons of her la- 
dies. Still the demeanor of the little group was more in ac- 
cordance to the simplicity of the mistress than to the splendor 
of the others. No rigid etiquette was there ; none of that high 
and haughty ceremonial which, in the courtly festivals of the 



PENSEZ A M0I. 



309 



rival queen of England, froze up the feelings even of those trusted 
few who bore with the caprices, in seeking for the favors, of 
Elizabeth. The titles of grace and majesty were lisped indeed 
by the lips of the fair damsels, but the character of their re- 
marks, the polished raillery, the light laugh, and the freedom 
of intercourse, were rather those of the younger members of a 
family toward an elder sister, than of a court-circle toward a 
powerful queen. As the last notes of the song died away, she 
who was nearest to Mary's person whispered in a sportive 
tone, " Your grace has heard that lute before — " 

" In France, Carmichael," answered Mary, with a breath so 
deeply drawn as almost to resemble a sigh, " in our beautiful 
France ; when, when shall I look upon that lovely land again." 

While she was yet speaking the music recommenced. A 
dash of impatience was mingled with the plaintive sweetness 
of the strain, and the words •' pensez a moi" swept past their ears 
with all the energy of disappointed feelings. 

" It is the voice — " 

" Of the sieur de Chastelar," interrupted the queen ; " we 
would thank the gentleman for his minstrelsey. Seyton, ma 
mignonne, hie thee across yon woodbine-maze, and summon 
this night-warbler to our presence." 

With an arch smile the lively girl bounded forward, and was 
for an instant lost among the foliage of the garden. 

" Dost thou remember, Carmichael," said the queen, whose 
thoughts had been reflected by the well-remembered strains — 
" dost thou remember our sylvan festivals in the lovely groves 
of Versailles, with hound and hawk for noonday pastime, and 
the lute, the song, and the unfettered dance upon the green 
sward, beneath moons unclouded by the hazy gloom of this 
dark Scotland's ?" 

" And does your grace remember," laughed the other in re- 
ply, " a certain fete in which the palm of minstrelsey was award- 



310 CHASTELAR. 

ed by your royal hand to a masked hunter of the forest ? Yet 
was his bearing somewhat gentle for a ranger of the green- 
wood, and his hand was passing white to have handled the 
tough bow-string ? Does your grace's memory serve to recall 
the air whose executions gained that prize of harmony ? Me- 
thinks it did run somewhat thus," — and she warbled the same 
notes which had formed the burthen of the serenade. 

Whether some distant recollections conjured up the mantling 
color to the cheeks of Mary, or whether she dreaded the mis- 
construction of the serenader, on his hearing his own tender 
words repeated in a voice of female melody, it was with brow, 
neck and bosom of the deepest crimson that she turned to 
Mary Carmichael — 

" Peace, silly minion !" she said, with momentary dignity ; 
" wouldst have it said that Mary of Scotland is so light of bear- 
ing as to trill love-ditties in reply to unseen ballad-mongers V 
Nay, weep not neither, Marie ; if I spoke somewhat shortly, 
'twas that the gentleman was even then approaching. Cheer 
up, my girl ; thou hast, we know it well, a kind, a gentle, and 
a trusty heart, though nature has coupled the gift to that of 
a thoughtless head and random tongue. Take not on thus, 
or I shall blame myself in that I checked thee, though surely 
not unkindly. Mary of Stuart loves better far to look upon a 
smiling lip than a wet eye, even if it be a stranger's — much, 
less that of one whom she loves — as I love thee, Carmi- 
chael." 

There was, perhaps, no circumstance more remarkable than 
the power which, at every period of her momentous life, Mary 
appears to have possessed of winning, as it were at a glance, 
the affections of all who came in contact with her. The deep 
devotion, not of the barons and the military chiefs alone, who 
bled in defence of her cause, but of the ladies, the pages, the 
chamberlains of her court, nay, of the very grooms and servi- 



queen mart's winning manner. 311 

tors, with whom she could have held no intercourse beyond a 
smile or inclination of the head, in return for their lowly obei- 
sance, was ever ready for the proof, when circumstances 
might demand its exercise. Not shown by outward acts of hero- 
ism only, or by those deeds which men are wont to perform, 
no less at the instigation of their wishes for renown, or of ri- 
valry with some more famed competitor, this devotion was con- 
stantly manifested in the eagerness of all around her to exe- 
cute even the most menial duties to Mary's satisfaction ; in the 
promptness to anticipate her slightest wish ; in the lively joy 
which one kind word from her could awaken, as if by magic, 
on every brow ; and, above all, in the utter despondency which 
seemed to sink down upon those whom she might deem it ne- 
cessary to check, even with the slightest remonstrance. In the 
present instance the sensitive girl, to whom the queen had ut- 
tered her commands in the nervous quickness of , excitement, 
rather than with any feeling of harshness or offended pride, felt, 
it was evident, more bitterness of grief at the rebuke of one whom 
she loved no less than she revered, than she would have expe- 
rienced beneath the pressure of some real calamity. As quickly, 
however, as the sense of sorrow had been excited, did it pass 
away, before the returning smiles, the soft caresses, and the 
winning manners of the most fascinating of women the most 
amiable of superiors. 

Scarcely had the tears of Mary Carmichael ceased to flow, 
when the footsteps, which for some moments previously had 
been heard approaching, sounded close at hand ; the branches 
of the embowering shrubbery were gently put asunder, and the 
lady Seyton stood again before the queen, attended by a gen- 
tleman of noble aspect, and whose very gesture was fraught 
with that easy and graceful politeness which, perhaps, showed 
even more to advantage in that iron age and warlike country, 
displayed, as it often was, in contrast to the rude demeanor and 



312 CHASTELAR. 

stern simplicity of the warrior lords of Scotland, than in his 
native France. 

The sieur de Chastelar was at this time in the very prime 
of youthful manhood, and might have been some few years, and 
but few, the senior of the lovely being before whose presence 
he bent in adoration humbler, and more fervently expressed, 
than the reverence due from a mere subject to a mortal queen. 
Tall and fairly-proportioned, with a countenance in which 
almost feminine softness of expression was blended, with an 
aspect of the eye and lip, which proved the vicinity of bolder 
and more manly qualities, slumbering but not extinct, he seemed 
at the first glance a man most eminently qualified to win a fe- 
male heart. And who, that looked upon the broad and massive 
brow, and the quick glance of that eye, fraught with intelligence, 
could doubt but that the mind within was equal to the more 
perishable beauties of the form in which it was encompassed 1 
And when to all this was added, that the sieur de Chastelar 
had already won a name in his green youth that ranked with 
those of gray-haired veterans in the lists of glory ; that in all 
manly exercises, as in all softer accomplishments, he owned 
no superior ; that the most skilful master of defence, the far- 
famed Vicentio Saviola, confessed De Chastelar his equal in the 
quickness of eye, the readiness of hand and foot which had 
combined to render him the most distinguished swordsman of 
the day ; that the wildest and most untameable chargers that 
ever were compelled to undergo the manege, might as well 
have striven to shake off a portion of themselves, as to dismount 
De Chasteler by any display of violence and power ; that his 
hand could draw the clothyard arrow to the head, and speed it 
to its aim as truly as the fleetest archer that ever twanged a bow 
in Sherwood ; that he moved in the stately measure of the pavon, 
or the livelier galliarde, with that grace peculiar to his nation ; 
that, in the richness of his voice, his execution and taste on 



THE QUEEN'S YOUTHFUL LOVER. 313 

lute or guitar, he might have vied with the sons of Italy her- 
self ; in short, that all perfections which were deemed most re- 
quisite to form a gentleman were united in De Chastelar, what 
female heart, that was not proof to all the allurements of love 
or fancy, could hope to make an adequate resistance 1 Young, 
handsome, romantic, ardent in his hopes, enthusiastic almost to 
madness in his affections, he had been captivated years before 
in the gay salons of the French capitol, by the beauty and irre- 
sistible fascinations of the princess. 

In the intercourse of French society, which even in the 
times of the Medici, as it has been in all succeeding ages, was 
far more liberal in its distinctions, and less restricted by the 
formalities of etiquette, than in any other court, a thousand op- 
portunities had occurred, by which the youthful cavalier had 
profited to rivet the attention of the princess ; at every carousel 
he bore her colors ; in every masque he introduced some delicate 
allusion, some soft flattery, palpable to her alone ; in every con- 
test of musical skill, which yet survived in Paris, the sole rem- 
nant of the troubadours, some covert traces of his passion might 
be discovered, if not by every ear, at least by that of Mary. 
Intoxicated as she was, at this stage of her life, by the adula- 
tion of all, by the consciousness of beauty, power, and rank, far 
above all her fellows, the queen of Scotland owed much of her 
misery in after-years to the unclouded brilliancy of her youth- 
ful prospects, and to the wide distinction between the manners 
of that court, in which her happiest hours were spent; and of 
her northern subjects, by whom her gaiete de cour, her love for 
society less formal than the routine of courts, and her predilec- 
tions for all innocent amusements, were ever looked upon in 
the light of grave derelictions from decorum and morality. 

That she had regarded the gallant boy, whose accomplish- 
ments were so constantly before her eyes, with favorable incli- 
nations was not to be doubted ; and that at times she had lav- 

14 



314 CHASTELAR. 

ished upon him marks of her good will in rather too profuse a 
degree, was no less true ; but whether this line of conduct was 
dictated merely by a natural impulse, which ever leads us to 
distinguish those whom we approve from the common herd of 
our acquaintance, or by a warmer feeling, can never now be 
ascertained. It mattered not, however, to the youth, from 
which cause the conduct of the lovely princess was derived ; 
it was enough for him that she had marked his attentions, that 
she had deigned to look upon him with favorable eyes, that she 
might at some future period learn to love. 

Not long, however, was it permitted to him to indulge in 
those fair but fallacious dreams ; the marriage of the Scottish 
princess with the royal Francis was ere long publicly announced, 
the ceremonies of the betrothal, and lastly of the wedding itself, 
were solemnized with all the pomp and splendor of the might- 
iest, realm in Europe, and the aspirations of the united nations 
ascended in behalf of Francis and his lovely bride. 

It was then, for the first time, that Mary was rendered fully 
aware of the misery which her unthinking freedom had entailed 
upon the ardent nature of De Chastelar ; it was then, for the 
first time, that she learned how deep and powerful had been 
the passion which he had nourished in his heart of hearts — that 
she was awakened to a consciousness that she was loved, not 
wisely, but too well. Heretofore she had believed, that the 
eagerness of the gay and gallant Frenchman to display his 
equestrian skill, his musical accomplishments, before her pres- 
ence, and as it were in her behalf, and the devotedness with 
which he turned all his powers to a single object, were rather 
to be attributed to a desire of gaining general approbation as a 
gentle cavalier, a slave to beauty, and a favored servant of 
earth's loveliest lady, than to a passion, the romance of which, 
considering the wide distinction of their sphere, would have 
amounted to actual insanity. Now she perceived, to her deep 



THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 315 

regret, that the arrow had been shot home, and that the barb 
had taken hold too firmly to be disengaged by a sudden effort, 
how vehement soever. She saw, in the pale cheek and hollow 
eye, that he had cherished hopes which reason and reality 
must bid him discard, at once and for ever ; but which he 
yet had not the fortitude to tear up by the roots, and cast 
into oblivion. For a time he had wandered about, a spectre 
of his former person, among the festivities and happiness 
of all around him, paler every day, and more abstracted in 
his mien ; then he had exiled himself at once from rejoicings 
in which he could have no share, and had buried his hopes, 
his anxieties, his misery, in the loneliness of his own secluded 
chamber. 

Thus had passed weeks and months ; and when at length he 
had come forth again to join the world and all its vanities, he 
was, as it seemed to all, a wiser and a sadder man. The 
queen, ever kind and affectionate in her disposition, imagining 
that he had struggled with the demon which possessed him, 
and cast his hopeless love behind him, met his return to the 
courtly circle with her wonted condescension. On his prefer- 
ring his request to be installed her chamberlain, willing to 
mark her high sense of his imagined integrity, in thus man- 
fully shaking off his weakness, she granted his request ; and 
trusting that his own acuteness would readily perceive the dis- 
tinction between royal favor to a trusted servant and feminine 
affections to a preferred lover, assumed nothing of formality or 
etiquette, more than had characterized their former days of un- 
restricted intercourse. Her own first trial followed ; the first 
year of her nuptials had not yet flown, when the gallant Fran- 
cis, the earliest, the worthy object of her young love, sickened 
with a disease which from its very commencement permitted 
but slight hopes of his recovery. Then came the wretched- 
ness of anxiety, hoping all things, yet too well aware that all 



316 CHASTELAR. 

was hopeless ; the vvatchings by his feverish bed, when watch- 
ing, it was too obvious, could be of no avail ; the agony when 
the announcement that all was over, long foreseen, but never 
to be endured, burst on her mind ; the long, heart-rending sor- 
row, the repinings after pleasures that were never to return ; 
and, last of all, the cold, stern carelessness of despair. She 
awoke at length from her lethargy of wo ; awoke to leave the 
lovely climate which she had learned almost to deem her own; 
to be torn from the friends whom she had loved, and the society 
of which she had been the brightest gem, to return to a country 
which, though it was the country of her birth, had never con- 
jured up to her imagination any pictures save of a gloomy hue 
and melancholy nature. 

A few who had served her in the sunny land of France ad- 
hered to her with unshaken resolution, despising all inconve- 
niences, setting at naught all dangers, save that separation from 
a mistress, whom, to have attended once, was to love for ever. 
Among those few was De Chastelar. The alteration in her 
condition had undoubtedly suggested to the widowed queen the 
necessity of an alteration in her conduct toward De Chastelar, 
particularly when it was added, that familiarity between a crea- 
ture so young and lovely as herself and a gentleman so noble, 
even in his melancholy, as the chamberlain, would have at 
once excited the indignation of her stern and rigid subjects. 
In these circumstances it would perhaps have been a wiser, 
though not a more considerate plan, to have confided the cause 
of her embarrassment to the causer of it, and to have requested 
his absence from her court. It was not, however, in Mary's 
nature to give pain, if she could possibly avoid it, to the mean- 
est animal, much less to a friend valued and esteemed, as he 
who was the innocent cause of her anxiety. She adopted, 
therefore, what, being always the most easy, is ever the most 
dangerous, an intermediate course. In public De Chastelar 



A WOUNDED HEART. 317 

received no marks of approbation from the queen, much less of 
regard from the woman ; but in her hours of retirement, when 
surrounded by the ladies of her court, the most of whom had 
followed her footsteps northward from gay Paris, she delighted 
to efface from his mind the recollections of neglect before 
the eyes of the censorious Scots, by a delicacy of atten- 
tion, and a warmth of friendship, which, while it fully an- 
swered her end of soothing his wounded feelings, led him to 
cherish ideas most fatal in the end to his own happiness, and 
to that of the fair being whom he so adored. It was with a 
heightened color and throbbing breast that Mary turned to ad- 
dress her unconfessed lover, yet there was no nutter in the 
clear, soft voice with which she spoke. 

" We would thank," she said, " the sieur de Chastelar for 
the delightful sounds by which he has rendered our walk on 
this sweet evening even more agreeable than the mild air and 
cloudless heaven could have done without his minstrelsey. Yet 
'twas a mournful strain, De Chastelar," she continued, " and one 
which, if we err not, flows from a wounded heart. Would that 
we knew the object of so true a servant's worship, that we 
might whisper our royal pleasure in her ear, that she should 
list the suit of one whom we regard so highly. Is she in 
truth so obdurate, this fair of thine, De Chastelar ? she must 
be hard of heart to slight so gallant a cavalier." 

" Not so, your grace," replied the astonished lover, in a 
voice scarcely less sonorous than the music he had made so 
lately. " She to whom all my vows are paid, she who has 
ever owned the passionate aspirations of a devoted heart, is as 
pre-eminently raised in all the sweet and amiable sentiments 
of the mind as is unrivalled beauty above all mortal beings." 

For an instant the queen was dumb ; she had hoped, by 
affecting ignorance of his sentiments, that she should have 
been enabled to make him comprehend the madness, the utter 



318 CHASTELAR. 

inutility of his passion, and she felt that she had failed; that 
words had been addressed to her, which, however she might 
feign to others that she had not perceived their bearing, he 
must be well aware she could not possibly have failed to un- 
derstand. It was with an altered mien, and with an air of 
cold and haughty dignity, that she again addressed him as she 
passed onward toward the palace. 

" We wish thee, then, fair sir, a better fortune hereafter, and 
until then good night." Without uttering a syllable in reply, 
he bowed himself almost to the earth ; nor did he raise his head 
again until the form he loved to look upon had vanished from 
his sight : then slowly lifting his eyes he gazed wistfully after 
her, dashed his hand violently upon his brow, and turning 
aside rushed hastily from the spot. 

An hour had scarcely elapsed before the lights were extin- 
guished throughout the vaulted halls of Holyrood ; the guards 
were posted for the night, the officers had gone their rounds, 
the ladies of the royal circle were dismissed, and all was dark- 
ness and silence. In Mary's chamber a single lamp was burn- 
ing in a small recess, before a beautifully-executed painting 
of the virgin, but light was not sufficient to penetrate the ob- 
scurity which reigned in the many angles and alcoves of that 
irregular apartment, although the moonbeams were admitted 
through the open casement. 

Her garb of ceremony laid aside, her lovely shape scantily 
veiled by a single robe of spotless linen, her auburn tresses 
flowing in unrestrained luxuriance almost to her feet, if she had 
been a creature of perfect human beauty, when viewed in all 
the pomp of royal pageantry, she now appeared a being of su- 
pernatural loveliness. Her small white feet, unsandalled, 
glided over the rich carpet with a grace which a slight degree 
of fancy might have deemed the motion peculiar to the inhabit- 
ants of another world. For an instant, ere she turned to her 



the quehn's prayer. 319 

repose, she leaned against the carved mull ions of the window, 
and gazed pensively, and it might be sadly, upon the garden, 
where she had so lately parted from the unhappy youth, whose 
life was thus embittered by that very feeling which, above all 
others, should have been its consolation. Withdrawing her 
eyes from the moonlit scene, she knelt before the lamp and the 
shrine which it illuminated, and her whispered orisons arose 
pure as the source from which they flowed ; the prayers of a 
weak and humble mortal, penitent for every trivial error, breath- 
ing all confidence to Him who alone can protect or pardon ; 
the prayers of a queen for her numerous children, and last, and 
holiest of all, a woman's prayers for her unfortunate admirer. 
Yes, she prayed for Chastelar, that strength might be given to 
him from on high, to bear the crosses of a miserable life, and 
that by Divine mercy the hopeless love might be uprooted from 
his breast. The words burst passionately from her lips, her 
whole frame quivered with the excess of her emotion, and the 
big tears fell like rain from her uplifted eyes. While she was 
yet. in the very flood of passion a sigh was breathed, so clearly 
audible, that the conviction flashed like lightning on her soul, 
that this most secret prayer was listened to by other ears than 
those of heavenly ministers. Terror, acute terror took posses- 
sion of her mind, banishing, by its superior violence, every less 
engrossing idea. She snatched the lamp from its niche, waved 
it slowly around the chamber, and there, in the most hal- 
lowed spot of her widowed chamber, a spy upon her unguarded 
moments, stood a dark figure. Even in that moment of astonish- 
ment and fear, as if by instinct, the beautiful instinct of purely 
female modesty, she snatched a velvet mantle from the seat on 
which it had been cast aside, and veiled her person even be- 
fore she spoke — "O God! it is De Chastelar!" 

" Sweet queen," replied the intruder, " bright, beautiful ruler 
of my destinies, pardon — " 



320 CHASTELAR. 

" What ho !" she screamed, in notes of dread intensity, " a 
moi,a moi mes Francais. My guards ! Seyton ! Carmichael ! 
Fleming ! will ye leave your queen alone ! alone Avith treach- 
ery and black dishonor ! Villain ! slave !" she cried, turning 
her flashing eyes upon him, her whole form swelling as it were 
with all the fury of injured innocence, " didst thou dare to think 
that Mary — Mary, the wife of Francis — the anointed queen 
of Scotland, would brook thine infamous addresses ? Nay, 
kneel not, or I spurn thee ! What ho ! will no one aid in mine 
extremity ?" 

" Fear naught from me," faltered the wretched Chastelar, but 
with a voice like that of some inspired Pythoness she broke 
in — "Fear! thinkst thou that I could fear a thing, an abject 
coward thing like thee ? a wretch that would exult in the in- 
famy of one whom he pretends to love ? Fear thee ! by heav- 
ens ! if I could have feared, contempt must have forbidden it." 

" Nay, Mary, hear me ! hear me but one word, if that word 
cost my life — " 

" Thy life ! hadst thou ten thousand lives, they would be but 
a feather in the scale against thy monstrous villany. What 
ho !" again she cried, stamping with impotent anger at the de- 
lay of her attendants, " treason ! my guards ! treason !" 

At length the passages rang with the hurried footsteps of the 
startled inmates of the palace ; with torch and spear, and bran- 
dished blades, they rushed into the apartment ; page, sentinel, 
and chamberlain, ladies with dishevelled hair, and faces 
blanched with terror. The queen stood erect in the centre of 
the room, pointing, with one white arm bare to the shoulder, 
toward the wretched culprit, who, with folded arms, and head 
erect, awaited his doom in unresisting silence. His naked 
rapier, with which alone he might have foiled the united 
efforts of his enemies, lay at his feet ; his brow was white as 
sculptured marble, and no less rigid, but his eyes glared 



THE QUEEN A WOMAN. 321 

wildly, and his lips quivered as though he would have 
spoken 

The queen, still furious at the wrong which he had done her 
fame, marked the expression. " Silence !" she cried — " degra- 
ded ! wouldst thou meanly beg thy forfeit life ? Wert thou my 
father, thou shouldst die to-morrow ! Hence with the villain ! 
Bid Maitland execute the warrant. Ourself — ourself will sign 
it — away ! Chastelar dies at daybreak !" 

" 'Tis well," replied he, calmly, "it is well — the lips I love 
the best pronounce my doom, and I die happy, since I die for 
Mary. Wouldst thou but pity the offender, while thou dost 
doom the offence, De Chastelar would not exchange his short- 
ened span of life, and violent death, for the brightest crown in 
Christendom. My limbs may die — my love will live for 
ever ! Lead on, minions ; I am more glad to die than ye to 
slay! Mary, beautiful Mary, think — think hereafter upon 
Chastelar !" 

The guards passed onward ; last of the group, unfettered and 
unmoved, De Chastelar stalked after them. Once, ere he 
stooped beneath the low-browed portal, he paused, placed both 
hands on his heart, bowed lowly, and then pointed upward, as 
he chanted once again the words, " Pensez a mat, noble dame, 
pensez a ?noi." As he vanished from her presence she waved 
her hand impatiently to be left alone — and all night long she 
traversed and re-traversed the floor of her chamber, in parox- 
ysms of the fiercest despair. The warrant was brought to her 
— silently, sternly, she traced her signature beneath it; not a 
sign of sympathy was on her pallid features, not a tremor shook 
her frame ; she was passionless, majestic, and unmoved. The 
secretary left the chamber on his fatal errand, and Mary was 
again a woman. Prostrate upon her couch she lay, sobbing 
and weeping as though her very soul was bursting from her 
bosom, defying all consolation, spurning every offer at remedy. 

14* 



322 CHASTELAR. 

" 'Tis done !" she would say, " 'tis done ! 1 have preserved my 
fame, and murdered mine only friend !" 

The morning dawned slowly, and the heavy bells of all the 
churches clanged the death-peal of De Chastelar. The tramp 
of the cavalry defiling from the palace-gates struck on her heart 
as though each hoof dashed on her bosom. An hour passed 
away, the minute-bells still tolling ; the roar of a culverin swept 
heavily downward from the castle, and all was over. He had 
died as he had lived, undaunted — as he had lived, devoted ! 
" Mary, divine Mary," were his latest words, " I love in 
death, as I loved in life, thee, and thee only." The axe drank 
his blood, and the queen of Scotland had not a truer servant 
left behind than he, whom, for a moment's frenzy, she was 
compelled to slay. Yet was his last wish satisfied ; for though 
the queen might not relent, the woman did forgive ; and in 
many a mournful hour did Mary think on Chastelar. 



RI Z ZIO. 

Bru. Do you know them \ 

Luc. No, sir ; their hats are plucked about their brows, 

And half their faces buried in their cloaks, 

That by no means I may discover them 

By any marks of favor. — Julius Cesar. 

The shadows of an early evening, in the ungenial month of 
March, were already gathering among the narrow streets and 
wynds of the Scottish metropolis. There was a melancholy 
air of solitude about the grim and dusky edifices, which tow- 
ered to the height of twelve or thirteen stories against the gray 
horizon. No lights streamed from the casements, no voices 
sounded in loud revelry or chastened merriment from the dwel- 
lings of the gloomy quarter in which the scene of our narrative 
is laid. The cheerless aspect of the night, together with the 
drizzling rain, which fell in silent copiousness, had banished 
every human being from the streets ; and, except the smoke 
which eddied from the dilapidated chimneys, and was instantly 
beat down to earth by the violence of the shower, there was no 
sign of any other inhabitants, than the famished dogs which 
were snarling over the relics of some thrice-picked bone. 
Suddenly the sharp clatter of hoofs, in rapid motion over the 
broken pavement, rose above the splashing of the flooded gut- 
ters, betokening the approach of men ; and ere a minute had 
elapsed two horsemen, gallantly mounted, rode hotly up the 
street. The foremost bestriding, with the careless ease of an 
accomplished rider, a jennet, whose thin jaws, expanded nos- 
tril, and flashing eye, no less than the deerlike springiness of 
its gait, and its unrivalled symmetry, proclaimed it sprung from 
the best blood of the desert, was of a figure that could not be 



324 rizzio. 

looked upon, however slightly, without awakening a sense of 
interest, perhaps of admiration, in all beholders. 

His countenance, of an oval form, and of a darker hue than 
the blue-eyed sons of northern latitudes are wont to exhibit — 
the full and somewhat wild expression of his dark eye, the 
melancholy smile which played upon his curling lip, pencilled 
mustache, and the peaked beard — contributing to form a face 
that Antonio Vandyke would have loved to paint, and after 
ages to admire, when invested with the life of his rich coloring. 
His dress of russet velvet slashed with satin, his feathered 
cap, with its gay fanfarona* and enamelled medal, his jeweled 
rapier, and the bright spurs in his falling buskins, were well 
adapted to the agile limbs and slender, though symmetrical 
proportions of the horseman. 

The second rider was a boy, whose black and scarlet liveries 
— the well-known colors of all servitors of the Scottish crown 
— were but imperfectly hidden by the frieze cloak which had 
been cast over them, evidently for the purposes of conceal- 
ment, rather than of comfort ; yet he, too, like the gallant whom 
he followed — if any faith was to be placed in the evidence of 
raven hair and olive complexion — owed his birth to some 
more southern clime. 

After winding rapidly through several dim and unfrequented 
lanes, the leading horseman, checking his speed, gazed around 
him with a doubtful and bewildered eye. 

11 Madre di Dio" he exclaimed at length, " what a night is 
here ; a thousand curses on this learned fool, that he must 
dwell in such a den of thieves as this ; or rather a thousand 
curses on the blind and heretical Scots, that drive a man of 
wisdom, beyond their shallow comprehension, to bed with the 

* The Fanfarona was a richly-fashioned chain of goldsmith's work, not worn 
about the neck, but twisted in two or more circuits around the rim of the cap, or 
bonnet, and terminating in a heavy medal. It was probably of Spanish origin, 
but was much in vogue in the courts of Mary and Elizabeth. 



AN ANCIENT MANSION. 325 

very outcasts of society. Pietro, what ho !" and he raised his 
voice above the key in which he had pitched his soliloquy, 
" knowest thou the dwelling of this sage — this Johan Dami- 
etta ? methought that I had noted the spot, yet have these 
sordid lanes banished the recollection. Presto, time fails 
already." 

Without uttering a syllable in reply, the page sprung from 
his horse, and pointed to the doorway of a mansion, dilapidated 
even more than those in its vicinity, yet bearing in its site the 
marks of having been constructed in former days for the resi- 
dence of some proud baron. Nor even now — although all the 
appliances of comfort were utterly neglected, although the 
casements were void of glass, and the chimneys sent up no 
volumes from a cheerful hearth — were the external defences 
of the pile forgotten ; heavy bars of iron crossed and recrossed 
the deep-set embrasure which once had held the windows, and 
the oaken gate was clenched with many a massive nail and 
plate of rusted iron. The cavalier alighted, cast the rein to 
his servitor, and with the single word " Prudence," ascended 
the stone steps, and struck thrice at measured intervals upon 
the wicket with his rapier's hilt. The door flew open, but 
without the agency, as it appeared, of any living being, and, as 
the visiter entered, was closed again behind him with a heavy 
crash. 

A narrow passage was before him, scarcely rendered visible 
by the flickering light of a cresset suspended from the ceiling, 
and nourished, as it seemed, with spirit, rather than with the 
richer food of oil. Uncertain, however, as was the illumina- 
tion, it served to show a second door, even more strongly con- 
structed than the first, fronting the intruder at the distance of 
some ten paces ; while the wall, perforated with loops for mus- 
ketry, or more probably, if the remote antiquity of the building 
were considered, for arrows, proved that the hostile intruder 



32G rizzio. 

had effected but little in forcing his way through the outward 
entrance. It would be wrong, in the description of this diffi- 
cult passage, to omit the mention of certain orifices, or slits, 
extending in length from the floor even to the ceiling of the 
side-walls, but not exceeding a single inch in width, as they 
may tend perhaps to cast some light upon an invention of the 
darkest ages of Scottish history, the reality of which has been 
considered doubtful by acute antiquarians. From the upper 
extremity of these slits protruded on either side the blades of 
six enormous swords, which, being placed alternately, and 
worked by some concealed machinery, must inevitably hew to 
atoms, when once set in motion, any obstacle to their appalling 
sway. This was the dreaded swordmill first discovered by 
the wizard baron Soulis, and thence invested with superstitious 
error, which was needless, at the least, when the actual horrors 
of the engine were considered. It is, however, probable, that 
these gigantic relics of an earlier age were no longer capa- 
ble of being rendered available at the period of which we 
write ; at all events they hung in rusty blackness, suspended 
like the sword of Damocles above the head of the intruder, 
rendering his position awful, at least, if not in reality insecure. 

Notwithstanding the warlike and turbulent character of 
Scotland during the reign of Mary, there was nevertheless 
enough of the uncommon in the defences of this dark and dan- 
gerous entrance to have riveted the attention of a man less anx- 
iously engaged than was the foreign cavalier. Apparently un- 
dismayed by the wild contrivances around him, the gallant strode 
forward to repeat his signal on the inner wicket, when a broad 
glare of crimson light, produced by some chemical preparation, 
considered in that dark age supernatural, was shot into his very 
face from an aperture above, clearly displaying to some con- 
cealed observer the form and features of his visiter. 

"Ha!" cried a voice so shrill and grating as to produce a 



THE CONJURER'S CELL. 327 

painful impression on the nerves of the hearer. " Thou art 
come hither, Sir Italian ; enter, then — enter in the name of 
Albunazar! — enter, the hour is propitious, and thou art waited 
for !" 

The door revolved noiselessly on its hinges, and a few steps 
brought the Italian to the chamber of the sage. It was a small 
and central cell, without the slightest visible communication 
with the outward air. Books of strange characters and instru- 
ments of singular device were scattered on the floor, the tables, 
and the seats ; astrolabes, globes of the terrestrial and celestial 
world, crucibles, and vials of rare and potent mixtures, lay be- 
side discolored bones, reptiles, and loathsome things from trop- 
ical climes, some stuffed, and others carefully preserved in 
spirit. A huge furnace glimmered in the corner, covered with 
vessels containing, doubtless, alembics of unearthly power; a 
large black cat — to which inoffensive animal wild notions of 
infernal origin were then attached — and a gigantic owl, perched 
on a fleshless skull, completed the ornaments of this receptacle 
of superstitious quackery, which was rendered as light as day 
by the aid of some composition, burning in a lamp so brilliantly 
as to dazzle the firmest eye. In the midst of this confused as- 
semblage of things, useless and revolting alike to reason and 
humanity, the master-spirit of his tribe was seated — a small 
old man, whose massive forehead, pencilled with the deep lines 
of thought, would have betokened a profound and powerful 
mind, had not the quick flash of the small and deeply-seated 
eye belied, by its crafty and malignant glances, all symptoms 
of a noble nature. 

" Hail, Signor David !" he said, but without raising his eyes 
from the retort over which he was poring. " Hail ! methought 
that thou didst hold the wisdom of the sage mere quackery ! 
Ha! out upon such changeful, feather-pated knaves, who scoff 
before men at that which they respect — ay, which they trem- 



328 rizzio. 

ble at in private ! — tremble ! well mayst thou tremble — for thy 
doom is fixed ! See," he cried, in a fearfully unnatural tone, 
as he raised the metallic rod with which he had been stirring 
the contents of the glass vessel, and exhibited it dripping with 
some crimson-colored liquid — " see ! it is gore — thy gore, Sig- 
nor David ! — ha, ha, ha!" and he laughed with fiendish glee at 
the evident discomposure of his guest. 

" Nay, nay, good father — " he began, when the other cut 
him off abruptly — 

" ' Good father !' — ha, ha, ha ! Good devil ! Fool, dost think 
that thou canst change the destinies that were eternal, before 
so vain a thing as thou wast in existence, by thine unmeaning 
flatteries 1 I spit upon such courtesies ! ' Good father !' listen 
to my words, and mark if I be good. Thou hast risen by mean- 
ness, and flattery, and cringing, and vice ; thou hast disgraced 
thy rise by insolence and folly — weak, drivelling folly; and 
thou sh alt fall — ha, ha, ha ! — fall like a dog! Look to thy- 
self! — ' Good father!' Begone, or thou shalt hear more, and 
that which thou wilt like even less than this — begone !" 

" I meant not to offend thee," replied the astonished courtier, 
" and I pray thee be not distempered. I have broken in on 
thy retirement to witness that unearthly skill of which men 
speak, and I would ask of thee in courtesy mine horoscope, 
that I may so report thee — " 

" Thou ! thou report me, David Rizzio ! the wire-pinching, 
sonned-jingling, base-born scullion, report of Johan Damietta ! 
Get thee away! I know thee! Begone — nay, if thou wilt 
have it, listen : bloody shall be thine end, and base. A bastard 
foeman is in thy house of life. Tremble at the name — " 

" Rather," interrupted the Italian, enraged at the language of 
the conjurer, " rather let that bastard tremble at the name of 
Rizzio ; and thou, old man, I leave thee as I came, undaunted 
by thy threats, and unconvinced by thy jugglery." 



THE WARNING. 



329 



"To-night! to-night!" hissed the old man, in notes of hor- 
rible malignity — "to-night shalt thou know if Damietta be a 
juggler! If thou wouldst live — for I would have thee live, 
poor worm — fly from the hatred of the Scottish nobles! — 
away !" 

" Know'st thou," asked Rizzio, tauntingly, " a Scottish prov- 
erb — if not, I will instruct thee — framed, if I read it rightly, 
to express the character of their own factious brawlers ? ' The 
bark is aye waur than the bite.' Adieu, old man ! to-morrow 
thou shalt learn if Rizzio fears or thee or thy most doughty 
brawlers." 

" Ha, ha, ha ! — to-morrow ! mark that — to-morrow !" and a 
yell of laughter burst from every corner of the chamber ; the 
mixture in the retort exploded with a stunning crash, the lights 
were extinguished, and, without being aware of the manner of 
his exit, the royal secretary found himself beyond the outer 
gate of the wizard's dwelling, with a throbbing pulse and swim- 
ming brain, but still, to do him justice, undismayed by that 
which his naturally incredulous and sneering turn of mind, ra- 
ther than any clear conviction of the truth, led him to consider 
as a mere imposture. 

Without replying a syllable to the inquiries of the terrified 
page, who had heard the frightful sounds within, he flung him- 
self into his saddle, plunged the rowels into the flanks of the 
jennet until she reared and plunged with terror, and dashed 
homeward at a fearful rate through alleys now as dark as mid- 
night. Nor did he draw his bridle till he had passed the 
guarded portals of the palace, and galloped into the inmost 
court of Holyrood : there indeed he checked his courser with 
a violence which almost hurled her on her haunches, sprang 
from her back, and, without looking round, hurried into the 
most private entrance, and disappeared. 

Scarcely had he passed through the gateway, and ere yet 



330 rizzio. 

the page had left the courtyard with the horses, when the sen- 
tinel, who had permitted the well-known secretary of the queen 
to pass unquestioned, brought down his partisan to the charge, 
and challenged, as a tall figure, whose clanging step announced 
him to be sheathed in armor cap-a-pie, muffled in a dark man- 
tle, with a hood like that worn by the Romish priesthood drawn 
close around his head, approached him. 

" Stand, ho ! the word — " 

" Another word, and thou never speakest more !" replied the 
other, in a hoarse, rapid whisper, offering a petronel, cocked, 
and his finger on the trigger, at the very throat of the aston- 
ished soldier ; " the king requires no password !" 

" The king?" replied the sentinel, doubtfully, "the king? — 
I know not, nor would I willingly offend ; but thou art not, me- 
thinks, his majesty." 

" Take that, thou fool, to settle all thy doubts !" cried the 
other, in the same deep whisper as before ; while, casting his 
weapon into the air, he caught it by the muzzle as it turned 
over, and sunk the loaded butt deep into the forehead of the 
unwary sentinel. The whole was scarcely the work of an in- 
stant ; and ere the heavy body could fall to earth, the ready 
hand of the assailant had caught it, and suffered it to drop so 
gently as to create no sound. In another moment he was 
joined by three or four other persons similarly disguised, and 
followed by a powerful guard of spearmen. A heavy watch of 
these was posted at the principal gateway, and knots of others 
were disposed around the court at every private entrance, with 
orders to let none pass on any pretext whatsoever. " Warn 
them to stand back twice! the third time kill!" was the mut- 
tered order of the chief actor in the previous tragedy. " So 
far, my liege, all's well!" he continued, turning with an air of 
some respect to another of the muffled figures, of a port some- 
what less commanding than his own huge proportions ; " and 



THE CONSPIRATORS. 331 

Morton must, ere this, have seized all the remaining avenues." 
While he was yet speaking, a slight bustle was heard at a 
distance, and in a second's space they were joined by him of 
whom they spoke. 

" How goes the business, Morton ?" said the first speaker. 

"All well! — the gates are ours, and not a soul disturbed; 
the villain sentinels laid down their arms at once, and are even 
now in ward ! Let us be doing : a deed like this permits of 
no delay !" 

" On, friends ! Be silent, and be certain !" 

And one by one they filed through the same portal by which 
the Italian had, so short a time before, sped to the presence of 
his royal mistress. 

In the meantime, unconscious of the fearful tragedy that was 
even then in preparation the lovely queen, with her most 
trusted servants, the devoted David, and the noble countess of 
Argyle, had retired from the strict ceremonies of the court circle 
to the privacy of her own apartments. 

In a small antechamber, scarcely twelve feet in width, com- 
municating with the solitary chamber of the queen — solitary, 
for the notorious profligacy and insolent neglect of Darnley had 
left her an almost widowed wife — the board was spread, glit- 
tering with gold and crystal, and covered with the delicacies 
of the evening meal. 

The beautiful queen, freed from the galling chains of cere- 
mony, her robes of state thrown by, and attired in the elegant 
simplicity of a private lady, sat there — her lovely features 
beaming with condescension and with unaffected pleasure, con- 
versing joyously with those whom she had selected from her 
court as worthiest of her especial favor. Bitterly, cruelly had 
she been deceived in the character of him whom she had in 
truth made a king ; for whose gratification she had almost ex- 
ceeded the rights of her prerogative, and given deep offence to 



332 rizzio. 

her haughty and suspicious nobles ; having discovered, when 
too late, that, while possessed of all the graces and accomplish- 
ments that constitute an elegant and agreeable admirer, Henry 
Darnley was deficient, miserably deficient, in all that can ren- 
der a man eligible as a friend and husband. Deserted, neg- 
lected, outraged in a woman's tenderest point, almost before the 
first month of her nuptials had elapsed, the flattering dream had 
passed away which had promised years of happy, peaceful com- 
munion with one loved and loving partner. Ever preferring 
the society of any other fair one to that of the lovely being to 
whom he should have been bound by every tie of love and 
gratitude, the king had early left his disconsolate bride to pine 
in total seclusion, or to seek for recreation in the society of 
those whose qualities of mind, if not their rank, might render 
them fit companions for her solitude ; and she, poor victim of a 
brutal husband, and unhappy mistress of a turbulent and war- 
like nation, fell blindly but most innocently into the snare of her 
unrelenting enemies. 

Of all who were around her person, Rizzio alone was such 
by habits, education, and accomplishments, as could lend attrac- 
tion to the circle of a gay and youthful queen. Accustomed, 
from her earliest youth, to the elegant and polished manners 
of the French nobility, the rude and illiterate barons — with 
whom the highest grade of knowledge was the marshalling of 
a host for the battle-field, and the highest, merit the fighting in 
the front rank when marshalled — could appear to her in no 
other light than that of brutal and uneducated savages. What 
wonder, then, that a youth well skilled as David Rizzio in all 
the arts and elegances most suitable to a noble cavalier, hand- 
some withal and courteous, attentive even to adoration to her 
slightest wish, and ever contrasting his cultivated mind with the 
untutored rudeness of the warrior-lords of Scotland, should have 
been admitted to a degree of intimacy by his forsaken mistress, 



SIR PATRICK RUTHVEN. 333 

innocent, undoubtedly, and pardonable, even should we be dis- 
posed to admit that it was imprudent? 

Two menials in the royal livery waited upon that noble com- 
pany, but without the servile reverence which was exacted at 
the public festivals of royalty. The fair Argyle, who, in any 
other presence than that of her unrivalled mistress, would have 
been second to none in loveliness, jested and smiled with Mary 
more in the manner of a beloved companion than that of an at- 
tendant to a queen. But on the brow of David there was a 
deep and heavy gloom ; and when he answered to the persi- 
flage and polished railleries of the queen or that young countess, 
although his words were gay, and at times almost tender, the 
tones of his voice were grave almost to sadness. 

" What has befallen our worthy secretary ?" said Mary, after 
many fruitless efforts to inspire him with livelier feelings. 
" Thou art no more the gay and gallant Signor David of other 
days than thou resemblest the stern and steel-clad — " 

Even as she spoke, it seemed as though her words had con- 
jured up an apparition : for a figure, sheathed in steel from 
crest to spur, strode, with a step that faltered even amid its 
pride, from out the shadows of her private chamber into the full 
glare of the lamps. The vizor was raised, and the pale brow 
and haggard eye, the uncombed beard, and the corpse-like hue 
of the whole visage, better beseemed the character of some 
foul spirit released from its peculiar place, than of a noble baron 
in the presence of his queen. A loud shriek from the terrified 
Argyle first called the attention of Mary to the strange intruder. 
But David sat with his eye glaring, in a horrible mixture of 
personal apprehension and superstitious dread, upon the person 
of his deadliest foeman. 

"Arise, David, thou minion! arise, and quit the presence to 
which thou art a foul and plague-like blot!" cried the deep 



334 rizzio. 

voice of Ruthven, ere a word had yet found its way to the lips 
of the indignant queen 

" Sir Patrick Ruthven — if our eyes deceive us not," she said 
at length, erecting her noble figure to its utmost, and bending 
upon him a glance which, hardened as he was in crime and 
cruelty, he could no more have met with his than the vile raven 
have gazed upon the noonday sun — " Sir Patrick Ruthven, we 
would learn what means this insolent intrusion ?" 

" It means, fair madam," replied Damley — who now followed 
his savage instrument, accompanied by his no less fierce ac- 
complices, the base-born Douglas, the brutal Ker of Fawdon- 
side, in bearing and in manners fitted rather for the guardhouse 
than the court, and the most thorough ruffian of the party, Pat- 
rick de Balantyne — "it means that your vile minion's race is 
run !" 

"Ha! comes the blow from thee? — I might indeed have 
deemed it so," she replied, calmly but scornfully. " What is 
your grace's pleasure ?" and she smiled in beautiful contempt. 

" My pleasure is that he — yon base Italian, yon destroyer 
of my honor, and of yours — of your honor, madam, if you know 
such a word — shall perish !" 

" Never, Henry Darnley ! mine own life sooner !" And she 
confronted him with flashing eyes and heightened color, her 
whole frame quivering with resolve and indignation. " Thinkst 
thou to put a stain like this upon the honor of a queen, and that 
queen, too, thine own much-injured wife ? Out, out upon thee, 
for a heartless, coward thing ! A man, a brute, hath some affec- 
tion, hath some touch of love for those who have loved him, as 
I have once loved thee ; of gratitude toward those who have 
elevated him — not, no ! not as I have elevated thee — for never 
yet did woman lavish honor, power, kingdom, upon mortal man, 
as I have lavished them on thee ! Away, insolent and ungrate- 
ful, hence ! Thinkst thou to do murder, foul murder, in the 



THE SEER'S PREDICTION VERIFIED. 335 

presence of a woman, of a wife — a wife soon, wretch that she 
is, to be the mother of a child — of thy child, Henry ? Hence, 
and I will forgive thee all — even this last offence! Banish 
these murderous ruffians from my presence ; spare an honest 
and a noble servant — one who hath never, never wronged thee 
or thine ! spare him, and I will take thee yet again unto my 
heart, and love thee, as I have loved thee ever, even when thou 
hast been most cruel — ever, Henry Darnley, ever!" 

The king was moved, his lips quivered, and he would have 
spoken : all might still have been explained, all might have 
been forgiven ; but it was not so decreed. 

" Tush, we but dally," cried the brutal Ruthven, " we but 
dally ! On, gentlemen, and drag the villain from the presence !" 

Foremost himself, he strode to seize the unarmed wretch, 
who, broken in spirits, and appalled more perhaps by the recol- 
lection of the wizard's doom than by the sordid fear of death, 
clung to the robe of his adored mistress, poor wretch, as though 
the altar itself would have been to him a sanctuary against his 
ruthless murderers. 

" Mercy !" shrieked the miserable queen ; " mercy, for the 
love of Him that made you! mercy, Henry — mercy, for my 
sake, or, if not for mine, mercy for thine unborn infant's sake ! 
Ruthven — villain, false knight, uncourteous traitor — forego thy 
hold !" and she struggled madly with the assassins. " To arms !" 
she screamed in shriller tones, "to arms! — O God! O God! 
have I no guards, no friends, no husband ? Oh, that I had been 
born a man, and ye should rue this day — ay, and ye shall 
rue it !" 

Ruthven had clutched his victim with a grasp of iron, and, 
whirling him from his frail tenure, cast him to the attendant 
murderers. " Spare him !" she shrieked once more ; " spare 
him, and I will bless you ! Ay, strike !" she continued in calmer 
tones, as the ruffian Ker brandished his naked dagger at her 



336 rizzio. 

throat; " and thou, too, fire — fire upon thy mistress and thy 
queen !" Maddened by her resistance, and fearful that the citi- 
zens might rise in her behalf, Balantyne cocked his petronel. 
" Fire, thou coward ! why dost thou pause ? I am a woman, 
true — a queen, a wife — about to be a mother ; but what is that 
to such as thee ? Fire, and make your butchery complete !" 

But, as the words passed from her lips, the bloody deed was 
over. Even in the presence of the queen, dirk after dirk was 
plunged into the unresisting wretch. Long after life was ex- 
tinguished, the maddened assassins continued to mangle the 
senseless clay with their bloodthirsty w r eapons. So long as 
life remained, and so long as the horrid strife was doubtful, did 
Mary's fearful cries for mercy ring upon the ears of those who 
neither heard nor heeded her. The massacre w r as ended, and, 
with a degree of unmanly insensibility that would alone have 
stamped him the worst and fiercest of his race, Ruthven seated 
himself before the outraged woman, the insulted queen, and 
calmly wiped his brow, still reeking with her favorite's life- 
blood. " My sickness," he said, " must pardon me for sitting 
in ) r our presence. I had arisen from my bed to do this deed, 
and am now somewhat weary and o'erspent. I pray your high- 
ness command your minions to bear yon winecup hither." 

Without regarding for an instant this fresh insult, she dried 
her streaming eyes. " We have demeaned ourselves to pray 
for mercy from butchers. Tears are for men ! I have one 
duty left me, and Twill fulfil it — one aim to my existence, one 
study for my ingenuity, and one prayer to my God : my duty, 
mine aim, my study, and my prayer, shall be, to be avenged !" 



THE KIRK OF FIELD. 

"It is the curse of kings to be attended 
By slaves, that take their humors for a warrant 
To break within the bloody house of life; 
And, on the winking of authority, 
To understand a law; to know the meaning 
Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns 
More upon humor than advised respect." — King John. 

It was a dark and stormy night without, such as is not un- 
frequent, even during the height of summer, under the change- 
able influences of the Scottish climate. The west wind, charged 
with moisture collected from the vast expanse of ocean it had 
traversed since last it had visited the habitations of man, rose 
and sank in wild and melancholy cadences ; now howling vio- 
lently, as it dashed the rain in torrents against the rattling case- 
ments ; now lulling till its presence could be traced alone in 
the small, shrill murmur, which has been compared so aptly to 
the voice of a spirit. The whole vault of heaven was wrapped 
in blackness, of that dense and smothering character which 
strikes the mind as pertaining rather to the gloom of a closed 
chamber than to that of a midnight sky. 

Yet within the halls of Holyrood neither storm nor darkness 
had any influence on the excited spirits of the guests who were 
collected there to celebrate, with minstrelsey and dance, the 
marriage of Sebastian. Hundreds of lights flashed from the 
tapestried walls ; wreaths of the choicest flowers were twined 
around the columns ; rich odors floated on the air ; and the vo- 
luptuous swell of music entranced a hundred young and happy 
hearts with its intoxicating sympathies. All that there was of 

beautiful and chivalrous in old Dunedin thronged to the court 

15 



338 THE KIRK OF FIELD. 

of its enchanting queen on that eventful evening ; and it ap- 
peared for once as though the hate of party and the fierce zeal 
of clashing creeds had for a time agreed to sink their differ- 
ences in the gay whirl of merriment. The stern and solemn 
leaders of the covenant relaxed the austerity of their frown ; 
the enthusiastic chieftains of the Romish faith were content to 
mingle in the dance with those whom they would have met as 
gladly in the fray. 

With even more than her accustomed grace, brightest and 
most bewitching where all were bright and lovely, did Mary 
glide among her high-born visiters ; no shade of sorrow dimmed 
that transparent brow, or clouded the effulgence of that dazzling 
smile ; it was an evening of conciliation and rejoicing — of for- 
giveness for the past, and hope rekindled for the future. There 
was no distinction of manner as she passed from one to another 
of the animated groups that conversed, or danced, or hung in 
silent rapture on the musicians' strains, on every side. Her 
tone was no less bland, as she addressed the gloomy Morton, 
or the dark-browed Lindesay, but now returned from exile in 
the sister-kingdom, than as she turned to her gayer and more 
fitting associates. Never was the influence of Mary's beauty 
more effective than on that occasion ; never did her unaffected 
grace, her sweet address, her courtesy bestowed alike on all, 
exert a mightier influence over the minds of men than on the 
very evening when her hopes were about to be for ever blighted, 
her happiness extinguished, her very reputation blasted, by the 
villany of false friends, and the violence of open foes. 

The weak and vicious Darnley yet lingered on his bed of 
sickness, but with the vigor of health many of the darker shades 
of his character had passed away ; and Mary had again watched 
beside the bed of him whose foul suspicions and unmanly vio- 
lence — no less than his scandalous neglect of her unrivalled 
charms, his low and infamous amours, his studied hatred of all 



339 

whom she delighted to honor — had almost alienated the affec- 
tions of that warm heart which once had beat so tenderly, so 
devotedly, and, had he but deserved its constancy, so constantly 
for him. Oh, how exquisite a thing is woman's love ! how 
beautiful, how strange a mystery, is woman's heart! 'T was 
but a little month ago that she had almost hated. Neglect had 
chilled the stream of her affections : that he whom she had 
made a king, whom she had loved with such total devotion of 
heart and mind — that he should repay her benefits with outrage, 
her affections with cold, chilling, insolent disdain — these were 
the thoughts that had worked her brain to the very verge of 
madness and of crime. 

The "glorious, rask, and hazardous"* young earl of Orkney 
had ever in these hours of bitter anguish been summoned, she 
knew not how, to her imagination : the warm yet delicate at- 
tentions, the reverential deference to her slightest wish, the 
dignified and chaste demeanor, through which gleamed ever 
and anon some flash of chivalrous affection — some token that 
in the recesses of his heart he worshipped the woman as fer- 
vently as he served the sovereign truly ; the overmastering pas- 
sion always apparent, but so apparent that it seemed involunta- 
rily present ; the eye dwelling for ever on her features, yet 
sinking modestly to earth, as shamed by his own boldness, if 
haply it met hers ; the hand that trembled as it performed its 
office ; the voice that faltered as it answered to the voice he 
seemed to love so dearly — all these, all these, had they been 
multiplied a hundred-fold, and aided by the deepest magic, had 
effected nothing to wean her heart from Darnley, had not his 
own infatuated cruelty furnished the strongest argument in favor 
of the young and noble Bothwell. As it was, harassed by the 
deepest wrongs from him who was most bound to cherish and 
support her, and assailed by the allurements of one who coupled 

* Throgmorton's letter to Elizabeth. 



340 THE KIRK OF FIELD. 

to a beauty equal to that of angels a depth of purpose and dis- 
simulation worthy of the fiend, Mary had tottered on the preci- 
pice's verge ! Darnley fell sick, and she was saved ! Him 
whom she had almost, learned to hate while he had rioted in 
all the insolence of manly strength and beauty, she now adored 
when he was stretched languid and helpless on the bed of an- 
guish. She had rushed to his envenomed chamber, she had 
braved the perils of his contagious malady ; her hand had 
soothed his burning brow, her lip had tasted the potion which 
his feverish palate had refused ; day and night she had watched 
over him as a mother watches over her sick infant, in mingled 
agonies of hope and terror ; she had marked the black sweat 
gathering on his brow, and the film veiling his bright eye, and 
she had felt that her very being was wound up in the weal or 
wo of him whose death, one little month before, she would have 
hailed as a release from misery. She had noted the dawn of 
his recovery, she had fainted from excess of happiness ; she had 
pardoned all, all his past misdoings ; she was again the doting, 
faithful, single-hearted wife of her repentant Henry.* 

Now in the midst of song, and revelry, and mirth, while the 
gay masquers passed in gorgeous procession before her eyes, 
her mind was far away in the chamber of her recovered lord, 
within the solitary kirk of Field. The masque had ended, and 
the hall was cleared ; the wedding-posset passed around, beak- 
ers were brimmed, and amid the clang of music the toast went 
round — " Health to Sebastian and his bride !" The hall was 
cleared for the dance : a hundred brilliant couples arose to lead 
the Branle ; the minstrels tuned their prelude ; when the fair 
young bride, blushing at the boldness of her own request, en- 
treated that her grace would make her condescension yet more 

* Knox and Buchanan would make it appear that his reconciliation was insin- 
cere. But Knox and Buchanan wrote under the influence of political and reli- 
gious hostility, and could never allow a single merit to Mary. It is a sound rule 
that every mortal is innocent till proved guilty. 



A ROYAL PARTNER IN THE DANCE. 341 

perfect by joining in that graceful measure which none could 
lead so gracefully. 

If there was one failing in the character of Mary, which 
tended above all others to render her an object for unjust suspi- 
cions, and a mark for cruel reverses, it was an inability to re- 
fuse aught that might confer pleasure on any individual, how- 
ever low in station — a gentle failing, if it indeed be one, but 
not the less pernicious to the fortunes of all, and above all of 
kings. With that ineffable smile beaming upon her face, she 
rose ; and as she rose, Bothwell sprang forth, and in words of 
deep humility, but tones of deeper passion, besought the queen 
to make her slave the most happy, the most exalted of man- 
kind, by yielding to him her inestimable hand, even for the 
space of one short dance. 

For a single moment Mary paused ; but it was destined that 
she should be the victim of her confidence, and she yielded. 
Never, never did a more perfect pair stand forth in lordly hall, 
or on the emerald turf, than Mary Stuart and her destroyer. 
Both in the flush and flower of gorgeous youth : she invested 
with beauty such as few before or since have ever had to show, 
with grace, and symmetry, and all that nameless something 
which goes yet further to excite the admiration, and call forth 
the love of men, than loveliness itself; he strong, yet elegant 
in strength — proud, yet with that high and spiritual pride which 
had nothing offensive in his display — taller and more stately 
than the noblest barons of the court — they were indeed a pair 
unmatched amid ten thousand ; so rich in natural advantages, 
so exquisite in personal attractions, that the tasteful splendor 
of their habits was as little marked as is the golden halo which 
encompasses but adds no glory to the sainted heads of that de- 
lightful painter whose name so aptly chimes with the peculiar 
sweetness of his sublime creations. 

Even the iron brow of Ruthven — for he, too, was there — 



342 THE KIRK OF FIELD. 

relaxed as, leaning on her partner's extended hand, she passed 
him with a smile of pardon, and he muttered to his dark com- 
rade, Lindesay of the Byres — " She were in sooth a most fair 
creature, if that her mind might match the beauties of its man- 
sion." As he spoke, the measured symphony rang out, and in 
slow order the dancers moved forward ; anon the measure 
quickened, and the motions of the young and beautiful obeyed 
its impulses. It was a scene more like some fairy dream than 
aught of hard, terrestrial reality : the waving plumes, the glit- 
tering jewels, the gorgeous robes, and, above all, the lovely 
forms, which rather imparted their own brilliancy to these 
adornments than borrowed anything from them, combined to 
form a picture such as imagination can scarcely depict, much 
less experience suggest, from aught beheld in ballrooms of the 
present day, wherein the stiff and graceless costume of modern 
times is but a poor apology for the majestic bravery of the six- 
teenth century. 

Suddenly, while all were glancing round in the sw T iftest 
mazes of the dance, those who stood by observed the blood 
flash with startling splendor over brow, neck, and bosom of the 
youthful queen ; nay, her very arms, white in their wonted hue 
as the snow upon Shehallion, crimsoned with the violence of 
her emotions. Her eyes sparkled, her bosom rose and fell 
almost convulsively, her lips parted, but it seemed as though 
her words were choked by agitation. For a single instant she 
stood still ; then bursting through the throng, she sank nearly 
insensible upon one of the many cushioned seats that girded 
the hall ; but, rallying her spirits, she murmured something of 
the heat and the unusual exercise, drained the goblet of pure 
water presented by the hand of Orkney, and again resumed her 
station in the dance. 

" Pardon, pardon, I beseech you," whispered the impassioned 
tones of the tempter — "pardon, sweet sovereign, the boldness 



A REPROOF. 343 

that was born but of a moment's madness. Believe me — I 
would tear my heart from out my bosom, did it cherish one 
thought that could offend my mistress — my honored, my 
adored — 

" Hush ! oh, hush ! for my sake, Bothwell — for my sake, if 
for naught else, be silent ! I do believe that you mean honestly 
and well; but words like these 'tis madness in you to utter, 
and sin in me to hear them ! Bethink you, sir," she continued, 
gaining strength as she proceeded, and speaking so low that no 
ear but his might catch a solitary sound amid the quick rustle 
of the " many twinkling feet," and the full concert — " bethink 
you! you address a wife — a wedded, loyal wife — the wife of 
your lord, your king. I know that you are my most faithful 
servant, my most trusted friend ; I know that these words, 
which sound so wildly, are not to be weighed in their full 
sense, but as a servant's homage to his liege-lady : yet think 
what yon stern Knox would deem, think of the wrath of Darn- 
ley-" 

" If there were naught more powerful than Darnley's wrath," 
he muttered, in the notes of deep determination, " to bar me 
from my towering hopes, then were I blest beyond all hopes 
of earth, of heaven — supremely blest!" 

" What mean you, sir 1 We understand you not ! What 
should there be more powerful than the wrath of thy lawful 
sovereign 1 Speak ; I would not doubt you, yet methinks your 
words sound strangely. What be these towering hopes of 
thine ? Pray God they tower not too high for honesty or honor ! 
Say on, we do command thee !" 

" I will say on, fair queen," he replied, in a voice trembling 
as it were with the fear of offending and the anxiety of love — 
" I will say on, so you will hear me to the end, nor doubt the 
most devoted of your slaves !" 

" Hear you V she replied, considerably softened by his hu- 



344 THE KIRK OF FIELD. 

mility, " when did ever Mary Stuart refuse to hear the meanest 
of her subjects, much less a trusted and a valued friend, as thou 
hast ever been to her, as thou wilt ever be to her — wilt thou 
not, Bothwell ?" 

There was a heavenly purity, a confidence in his integrity, 
and a firm and full reliance on her own dignity, in every word 
she uttered, that might have converted the wildest libertine 
from his career of sin ; that might have confirmed the wariest 
and most subtle spirit that its guilty craft could never prevail 
against a heart fortified against its attacks by purity and by the 
stronger and more holy influences of wedded lore ; but on the 
fixed purpose, on the interminable pride, the desperate passion, 
and the unscrupulous will of Bothwell, every warning was lost. 

" I have adored you," he said, slowly and impressively — 
" adored you, not as a queen, but as a woman. Mary, angelic 
Mary, pardon — pity — and oh, love me! You do, you do al- 
ready love me ! I have read it in your eye, I have marked it 
in your flushing cheek, in your heaving bosom ! If this night 
you were free, would you not, sweet lady, lovely queen, would 
you not reward the adoration, the honest adoration of your de- 
voted Bothwell ?" 

" Stand back, my lord of Bothwell !" cried the now indignant 
queen, " stand back ! your words are madness ! Nay, but we 
w r ill be heard," she continued, with increasing impetuosity, as 
he endeavored again to speak. " Thinkest thou, vain lord, that 
I — I, Mary of France and Scotland — because 1 have favored 
and distinguished a subject, who, God aid me, merited not favor 
nor distinction — thinkest thou that I, a queen anointed — a 
mother and a wife — that 1 could love so wantonly as to de- 
scend to thee ? Back, sir, I say ! and if I punish not at once 
thy daring insolence, 'tis that thy past services, in some sort, 
nullify thy present boldness. Oh, my lord !" she proceeded, in 
a softer tone, and a big tear-drop trembled in her bright eye as 



THE SPELL BROKEN. 345 

she spoke, " Mary has miseries enough, that thou shouldst 
spare to add thy quota to the general ingratitude. If thou didst 
love me, as thou sayest, thy love would be displayed as that of 
a zealous votary to the shrine at which he worships ; as that 
of the magi bending before their particular star — not as that of 
a wild and wicked wanton to a frail, fickle woman !" 

It may be that the words with which Mary concluded her 
reproof kindled again the hope which had well nigh passed 
away from Bothwell's breast. 

" Nay, Mary, say not thus. Do I not know thy trials ? have 
I not marked thy miseries? and will I not avenge them? If 
thou wert free — did I say, if? By Heaven, fair queen, those 
locks of thine, that flow so unrestrained down that most glori- 
ous neck, are not more free than thou art ! Did I not hear thy 
cry for vengeance on the slaughterers of hapless Rizzio ? did I 
not hear, and have I not achieved the deed that secures at once 
thy freedom and thy vengeance ?" 

The spell was broken on the instant : the soft, the tender- 
hearted, the most gentle of women, was aroused almost to 
frenzy. The blood rushed in torrents to her princely brow, 
and left it again pale as the sculptured marble, but to return 
once more in deeper hues of crimson. Her eyes flashed with 
unnatural brightness ; her bosom heaved and fell like that of a 
young priestess laboring with the throes of prophetic inspira- 
tion ; she shook the tresses, he had dared to praise, back from 
her lovely face, and stamping her delicate foot in the passion 
of the moment on the oaken floor — 

" A guard !" she cried, in notes that might have vied with the 
clangor of a trumpet, so shrilly did they pierce the ears of all ; 
" a guard for my lord of Bothwell !" 

Had the thunder of heaven darted its sulphurous and scathing 

bolt into the midst of that assembly, a greater change its terrors 

could not have effected than did that thrilling cry. A hundred 

15* 



346 THE KIRK OF FIELD. 

rapiers flashed in the bright torchlight, as with bent brows and 
angry voices the barons of the realm rushed to the aid of their 
liege-lady. An air of cool defiance sat on the massive forehead 
of the culprit ; his eye was fixed upon the queen in sorrow, as 
it would seem, rather than in anger ; his sword lay quietly in 
his scabbard, although there were a hundred there with weap- 
ons thirsting for his blood, and hearts burning with the insa- 
tiable hate of ancient feuds. Murray and Morton, speaking 
eagerly and even sternly to the queen, urged his immediate 
seizure ; and the gray-haired duke of Lennox, clutching his 
poniard's hilt with the palsied gripe of eighty years, awaited 
but a sign to slay, he knew not and he recked not why, the 
ancient foeman of his race. 

But so it was not fated ! Before a word was spoken, the 
deep and sullen roar as of an earthquake burst upon their ears, 
and stunned their very hearts ; a second din, as of some mighty 
tower rushing from its base, succeeded, ere the casements had 
ceased to rattle with the shock of the first. 

" God of my fathers !" shouted Murray, " what means that 
din? Treason, my lords, treason ! Look to the queen — se- 
cure the traitor! Thou, duke of Lennox, with thy followers, 
haste straight to the kirk of Field! Without, there — let my 
trumpets sound to horse ! By Him that made me," he contin- 
ued, "the populace are rising!" — for the deep swell of voices, 
that rose without, announced the presence of a mighty mul- 
titude. 

In an instant the vaulted arches of the palace echoed with 
the flourished cadences of the royal trumpets, the ringing steps 
of steel-clad men, the tramp of hoofs in the courtyard, the 
gathering cries of the followers of each fierce baron, suc- 
ceeding wildly to the soft breathings of minstrelsey and song. 
At this instant Murray had resolved himself to act, and, with 
his hand upon the pommel of his sword, slowly but resolutely 



AN EVENTFUL MOMENT. 347 

stepped forward ''Yield thee !" he said, in stern, low tones ; 
"yield thee, my lord of Bothwell ! Hence from this presence 
thou canst not pass until all this night's strange occurrences be 
fully manifested ; ay, and if there be guilt — as I misdoubt me 
much there is — till it be fearfully avenged !" 

The touch of Murray on his shoulder, lightly as it fell, and 
grave as were the words of that high baron, aroused the reck- 
less disposition of Bothwell almost to madness. " Thou liest, 
lord !" he shouted, in the fierce impulse of the moment — " thou 
liest, if thou dare to couple the name of guilt with Bothwell ! 
Forego thy hold, or perish !" — and his dagger's blade was seen 
slowly emerging from its sheath, while his clinched teeth and 
the starting veins of his broad forehead spoke volumes of the 
bitterness of his wrath. Another second, and blood, the blood 
of Scotland's noblest, would have been poured forth like water, 
and in the presence of the queen ; the destinies of a great king- 
dom would have perchance been altered, and the history of 
ages changed, all by the madness of a single moment. In the 
fearful crisis, a wild shriek was heard from the upper end of 
the hall, to which the ladies of the court had congregated, round 
the queen, like the songsters of spring when the dark pinions 
of the hawk are casting down a shadow of terror on their peace- 
ful groves. 

" Help! help! — her grace is dying!" And, in truth, it did 
seem as though she were about to pass away. Better, a thou- 
sand times better, and happier, had it been for her, to have then 
died quietly in the palace of her forefathers, with the nobles 
of her land around her, than to have borne, for many an after- 
year, the chilling miseries which were showered by pitiless 
fortune on her head, till that most fatal hour of her tragic life 
arrived, and Mary was at length at rest ! 

Murray relaxed his hold, turned on his heel, and strode ab- 
ruptly to the elevated dais, on which the queen had sunk in 



348 THE KIRK OF FIELD. 

worn-out nature's weariness. For a minute's space Bothwell 
glared on him as he strode away, like a tiger balked of his dear 
revenge. It was most evident he doubted — doubted whether 
he should set all, even now, upon a cast, strike down a foeman 
in the very fortress of his power, and if he must die, like the 
crushed wasp, sting home in dying. Prudence, however, con- 
quered : he also turned upon his heel, and with a glance of the 
deepest scorn and hatred on the baffled lords, who, in the ab- 
sence of their master-spirit, had lost all unison, stalked slowly 
through the portal of the hall, and disappeared. 

Before ten seconds had elapsed, the rapid clatter of hoofs, the 
jingling of mail, and the war-cry — "A Bothwell ! ho ! a Both- 
well !" proclaimed that he had escaped the toils, and was sur- 
rounded by his faithful followers. 

When Murray reached the couch on w r hich the queen was 
extended, gasping as though in the last extremity, her case in- 
deed was pitiable. Her long locks had burst from their con- 
finement, and flowed over her person like a veil ; her corsage 
had been cut asunder by the damsels of her court, and her 
bosom, bare in its unspeakable beauty, was disclosed to the 
licentious gaze of the haughty nobles. An angle of the couch, 
as she had fallen, had grazed her temple, and the blood streamed 
down her cheek and neck, giving, by the contrast of its dark 
crimson, an ashy, deathlike whiteness to her whole complexion. 

"Ha!" he whispered, with deep emotions, "what means 
this ? Back, back, my lords, for shame, if not for pity ! would 
ye gaze upon your sovereign, in the abandonment of utter grief, 
as though she were a peasant-quean? Stand back, I say, and 
let the halls be cleared ; and hark thee, Paris," he continued, 
as a cringing, terrified-looking Frenchman entered the apart- 
ment, "bid some one call Galozzi hither: the poison-vending - , 
cozening Tuscan hath skill at least, and it shall go hardly with 
him so he exert it not ! But ha ! what ails the man 1 St. An- 



darnley's death. 349 

drew, lie will faint ! What ails thee, craven 1 Speak, speak, 
or I shake the coward soul from out thy carcass!" — and he 
shook the trembling servitor fiercely by the throat. 

" The king — the king — " he faltered forth at length, terri- 
fied yet more by the wrath of Murray than by the scene which 
he had witnessed. 

" What of the king, thou dastard ? Speak — I say, what of 
Henry Darnley '?" 

" Murdered, your highness — murdered !" 

" Nay, thou art made to say it !" 

" He speaks too truly, Murray," cried Morton, entering, with his 
bold visage blanched, and his dark locks bristling with unwonted 
terror ; " the king is murdered — foully, most foully murdered !" 

" By the villain Bothwell !" muttered Murray, between his 
hard-set teeth ; " but he shall rue the deed ! But say on, Mor- 
ton, say on : how knowest thou this ? Say on — and you, ladies, 
attend the queen." 

"I saw it, Murray — with these eyes I saw it — the cold, 
naked, strangled corpse — flung, like a carrion-carcass, on the 
garden-path ; and the kirk of Field a pile of smoking and steam- 
ing ruins — blown up with gunpowder, to give an air of acci- 
dent to this accursed treason. I tell you, man," he continued, 
as he saw Murray about to speak, " I tell you that I saw, in 
that drear garden, cast like a murrained sheep upon a dike, all 
that remained of Henry Darnley !" 

"'Tis false!" shrieked the wretched Mary, starting to her 
feet, with the wild glare of actual insanity in her eye ; " who 
saith I slew him? Henry Darnley! 'S death, lords! — the 
king, I say — the king ! Now, by my halydom, he shall be 
king of Scotland ! Dead — dead ! who said the earl of Orkney 
was no more ? Faugh ! how the sulphur steams around us ! 
It chokes — it smothers! Traitor, false traitor! know, earl, I 
will arraign thee. What ! kill a king ? whisper soft, low words 



350 THE KIRK OF FIELD. 

to a queen ? Hoa ! this is practice, my lord duke, foul prac- 
tice ; and deeply shall you rue it if you but hurt a hair of Darn- 
ley ! — Nay, Henry, sweet Henry, frown not on me ! Oh ! never 
woman loved as I love thee, my Darnley ! Rizzio — ha ! what 
traitor spoke of Rizzio ? But think not of it, Henry : the faith- 
ful servant is lost, but 'twas not thou that did it. Lo ! how 
dark Morton glares on me ! Back, Ruthven, fiend ! wouldst 
slay me? But I forgive thee all — all — Henry Darnley, all! 
Live — only live to bless my longing sight! No! no!" she 
shrieked more wildly, " he is not dead ! to arms ! what, ho ! — 
to arms ! a king, and none to rescue him ! To arms, I say ! I 
will myself to arms ! Fetch forth my Milan harness ; saddle 
me Rosabelle ! French — Paris, aho ! my petronels ! And ye, 
why do ye linger, wenches — Seyton, Carmichael, Fleming? — 
my head-gear and my robes ! The queen goes forth to day ! 
To horse, and to the rescue !" 

She made a violent effort to rush forward, but staggered, and 
if her brother had not received her in his arms, she would have 
fallen again to the earth. " Bear her hence, ladies ; bear her 
to her chamber! — thou hast a heavy weird — poor sister! — 
What ponder you so, Morton ? you would not mark her words : 
'tis sheer distraction — the distraction of most utter sorrow !" 

" Distraction ! I say ay ! but sorrow, no ! Sorrow takes it 
not on thus wildly. It savors more of guilt, Lord Murray — 
dark, damning, bloody guilt ! Heard ye not what she said of 
Orkney ? Distraction, but no sorrow : guilt, believe me, guilt !" 

" Not for my life would I believe it, nor must thou : if Morton 
and Murray hunt henceforth in couples — hark in thine ear !" — 
and he whispered, glancing his eyes uneasily around, as though 
the very stones might bear his words to other listeners. A grim 
smile passed athwart Morton's visage ; he bowed his head in 
token of assent. They passed forth from the banquet-hall to- 
gether, and Mary was left to her misery. 



BOTHWELL. 

"Marshal, demand of yonder champion 
The cause of his arrival here in arms : 
Ask him his name, and orderly proceed 
To swear him in the justice of his cause." — King Richard IL 

The summer sun was pouring down a flood of lustre over 
wood and moorland, tangled glen, and heathery fells, with the 
broad and blue expanse of the German ocean sparkling in ten 
thousand ripples far away in the distance. But the radiance 
of high noon fell not upon the forest and the plain in their soli- 
tary loveliness, but on the marshalled multitudes of two vast 
hosts, arrayed in all the pomp and circumstance of antique war- 
fare, glittering with helms and actons, harquebuss and pike, and 
waving with a thousand banners, of every brilliant hue and 
proud device. On a gentle eminence, the very eminence on 
which, a few short years before, the English Somerset had 
posted his gallant forces, lay the army of the queen, its long 
front bristling with rows of the formidable Scottish spear, its 
wings protected by chosen corps of cavalry, the firm and true 
adherents of the house of Stuart, or the daring, though licen- 
tious vassals of the duke of Orkney, and the royal banner, with 
its rich embroidery, floating in loud supremacy. Yet, gay and 
glorious as it. showed upon its ground of vantage, and gallantly 
as it might have contested that field against even superior num- 
bers, that array was but in name an army. Thousands were 
there who, though they had flocked with bow and arrow to the 
call of their sovereign, felt, not distaste alone, but actual disgust 
to the services on which they were about to be employed ; and 
not a few were among them who knew too well how little was 
the probability that they, a raw, tumultuary force, led on by 



352 BOTHWELL. 

men of gallantry indeed, but not of that well proved experience 
which, to a leader, is more than the truncheon of his command, 
should come off with victory, or even without defeat, from an 
encounter with veteran troops, retainers of the most warlike 
lords in Scotland, marshalled by soldiers with whose fame the 
air of every European kingdom was already rife — soldiers such 
as Lyndesay of the Byres, Kirkaldy of the Grange, Murray 
of Tullibardin, and a hundred others of reputation, if second, 
second to none but these. Nor was this all ; voices were not 
wanting, even in the army of the queen, to exclaim, that if the 
royal banner were displayed, its purity was sullied by the 
presence of a murderer ; and that success could never be hoped 
for, so long as Bothwell rode by the right hand of Mary. 
One exception there was, however, to this general feeling of 
dissatisfaction, if not of despair. A band of determined men, 
whose scar-seamed visages and stern demeanor, no less than 
the splendid accuracy of their equipments, and the admirable 
discipline with which they maintained their post, far in advance 
of the main body, and exposed to inevitable destruction on the 
advance of the confederated forces, should they be suffered, as 
it appeared too probable that they would, to remain unsupported 
against such desperate odds. But these were men to whom 
the most deadly conflict was but a game of chance ; inured from 
their youth upward to deeds of blood and danger — lawless and 
licentious in time of peace, even as they were cruel, brave, 
and fearless in the fight — the picked retainers, the desperate, 
of the duke of Orkney. 

Dark glances of contempt, if not of hatred, were shot ever 
and anon from beneath the scowling brows of these wild des- 
peradoes toward the wavering ranks of the main army, as, un- 
restrained by the exhortations or menaces of their officers — 
unmoved by the eloquent beauty of Mary herself, who rode 
among the trembling ranks, praying them, as they loved their 



THE MARSHALLED HOSTS. 353 

country, as they valued honor, as they would not see their 
wives, their mothers, and their daughters, delivered to the 
malice of unrelenting foemen, to strike one blow for Scotland's 
crown — to give once, once only, their voices to the exulting 
clamor, " God and the queen" — troop after troop broke away 
from the rear, and scattering themselves, singly, or in parties 
of two or three, over the open country, sought for that safety in 
mean and dastard flight, which they should have asked from 
their own bold hearts and strong right hands. 

It was at this moment that the heads of the confederated 
columns were seen advancing, in dark and dense masses, at 
three different points, against the front, which was still pre- 
served in Mary's army by the strenuous exertions of the lead- 
ers, rather than by any soldierly feelings on the part of the 
common herd. So nearly had they advanced to the royal lines 
that the stern and solemn countenances of the leaders, as they 
rode in complete steel, but with their vizors raised, each at the 
head of his own leading, were visible, feature for feature. The 
matches of the arquebusses might be clearly distinguished, 
blown already into a bright flame, while the pieces themselves 
were evidently grasped by ready and impatient hands, and the 
long spears of the vanguard were already lowered ; but not a 
movement of eagerness, not a murmur, or a shout, was heard 
throughout the thousands, whose approach was ushered to the 
ears alone by the incessant trampling sound, borne steadily on- 
ward, like the flow of some great river, occasionally broken by 
the shrill neighing of a charger, or the jingling clash of arms. 
The borderers of Bothwell, on the contrary, as they noted 
the advance, raised, from time to time, the wild and fearful 
yells with which it was their custom to engage, brandishing 
their long lances, and giving the spur to their horses, till they 
sprang and bolted like hunted deer ; and it required all the in- 
fluence of hereditary chiefs to restrain these savage moss-troop- 



354 BOTHWELL. 

ers from rushing headlong with their handful of men against 
the unbroken line of the confederate pikes, which swept on- 
ward, sullen and steady as the tide when it comes in six feet 
abreast. The effect of such a movement would have been at 
once fatal to their wretched mistress. It was too evident that, 
for a wavering, coward multitude, like that arrayed beneath the 
banner of the queen, there could be no hope, to fight against men 
such as those who were marching, in determined resolution, up 
that gentle eminence ; and all that now remained was an attempt 
at negotiation. 

It was at this moment, when the advanced guard of the two 
armies were scarcely ten spear's-lengths asunder, when the de- 
termination or wavering of every individual might be read by 
the opposite party in his features as clearly as in the pages of 
a book, that a single trumpet from the centre of the queen's 
army broke the silence with a wild and prolonged flourish. It 
was no point of war, however, that issued from its brazen 
mouth, no martial appeal to the spirits and courage of either 
host, but the prelude to a pacific parley — and straightway the 
banners throughout the host were lowered, and a white flag 
was waved aloft, in place of Scotland's blazonry. The ranks 
were slowly opened, and from their centre, with trumpeter and 
pursuivant, and king-at-arms, rode forth Le Croc, the French 
embassador. This movement, as it seemed, was wholly unex- 
pected by the confederate lords ; at least, the ranks continued 
their deliberate advance unchecked by the symbols of peace 
that glittered above the weapons of the rival host, till suddenly 
a foaming horse and panting rider furiously galloped from the 
rear. A single word was uttered, in a low, impressive whis- 
per ; it passed from mouth to mouth like an electric spark ; and, 
as though it were but a single man, that mighty column halted 
on the instant. There was no confusion in the manoeuvre, no 
hurry, nor apparent effort : the long lines of lances, so beauti- 



THE PARLEY. 355 

fully regular in their advance, sank as regularly to their rest ; 
and, but for the fluttering of their plumage in the summer air, 
those beings, strangely composed of every vehement and stir- 
ring passion, might have have passed for images of molten 
steel. But a few seconds had elapsed, and the flourish of the 
peaceful trumpets was yet ringing in the ears of all, when a 
dozen horsemen proceeded slowly forward, to meet the royal 
cavalcade. 

It was a singular and most impressive spectacle, that meet- 
ing. It was, as it were, the fearful pause between life and 
death — the moment of breathless silence that precedes the first 
crash of the thunderstorm. Every eye was riveted in either 
army on those two groups ; every heart beat thick, and every 
ear tingled with excitement. And, even independent of the 
appalling interest of the crisis, there was much to mark, much, 
to admire, in the handful that had come together to speak the 
doom of thousands ; to decide whether hundreds and tens of 
hundreds of those living creatures, who stood around them now, 
so glorious in the pride, the beauty, and the strength of man- 
hood, should, ere the sun might sink, be as the clods of the 
valley ; to decree, with their ephemeral breath, whether the 
soft west wind, that wafted now the perfumes of a thousand 
hills to their invigorated senses, should, ere the morrow, be 
tainted like the vapor from some foul charnel-house ! 

On the one side, on his light and graceful Arab, champing its 
gilded bits and shaking its velvet housings, sat the gay and gal- 
lant Frenchman — his long, dark locks uncovered, and his fair 
proportions displayed to the best advantage in his rich garb of 
peace. No weapon did he bear — not even the rapier, without 
which no gentleman of that period ever went abroad — but 
which, the more fully to manifest the candor and sincerity of 
his instructions, a handsome page held by his master's stirrup. 
Behind him, with pale visages and anxious mien, Marchmont, 



356 BOTHWELL. 

and Bute, and Islay, and the lion King, awaited the result of 
this their last resource. 

On the other hand, distinguished from their followers only 
by the beauty of their powerful chargers, and their own knightly 
bearing, halted the rebel chiefs. Plain almost to meanness in 
his attire, with his armor stained and rusty, and his embroid- 
ered baldrick frayed and rent, Lord Lyndesay of the Byres w r as 
foremost in the group. Morton was there, and Murray, all 
steel from crest to spur ; the best warrior, where all were good, 
the noblest spirit, the most upright man, Kirkaldy of the Grange. 

" Nobles and knights of Scotland," said the proud envoy, in 
a tone so calm and yet so clear that every accent could be 
noted far and wide, " I come to ye — a gentleman of France — 
the servant of a mighty monarch, unbought by friendship and 
unprejudiced by favor. For myself, or for my royal master, it 
recks us little whether or not ye choose to turn those swords, 
which should be the bulwarks of your country, against her 
vitals. Yet should it not be said that Scottishmen, like ill- 
trained dogs of chase, prefer to turn their fangs against each 
other, than to chase a nobler quarry. Ye are in arms against 
your queen — nay, interrupt me not, my lords — against your 
queen, I say ! or, as perchance ye word it, against her counsel- 
lors. That ye complain of grievances I know, and, for aught 
I know, justly complain. Yet pause, brave gentlemen, pause 
and reflect which is the greater grievance — a country torn with 
civil factions, internal war with all its dread accompaniments 
of massacre and conflagration, or those ills which now have 
stung you to exchange your loyalty for rebel arms ? Bethink 
ye, that in such a cause as this it matters not who wins — to 
vanquish countrymen and brothers is but a worse and deadlier 
evil than defeat by foreign foemen. Think ye this fatal field 
of Pinkie, whereon ye are arrayed, hath not already drunk 
enough of Scottish blood, that ye we would deluge it again ? — 



THE PARLEY. 357 

or that its name is not yet terrible enough to Scottish ears, that 
ye would now bestow a deeper blazonry of sin and shame ? 
Brave warriors, noble gentlemen, forbear ! Let the sword of 
civil discord, I beseech you, enter its scabbard for once blood- 
less ; let amicable parley gain the terms which bloodless news 
purchased! Strive ye for your country's glory? — lo, it calls 
on you to pause ! For your own peculiar fame 1 — it bids ye 
halt while there is yet the time, lest neither birth, nor rank, nor 
valor, nor high deeds, nor haughty virtues, preserve ye from 
the blot which lies even yet, though ages have passed, on those 
who have warred against their country ! Is it terms, fair terms, 
for which ye crowd in arms around yon awful banner ?" — point- 
ing to the colors of the rebel lords, emblazoned with the corpse 
of the murdered Darnley, and his orphan infant praying for 
judgment and revenge — " lo, terms are here! Peace, then, 
my lords ; give peace to Scotland, and eternal credit to your- 
selves. Her majesty bears not the wonted temper, the stem 
resentment of offended kings : even now she offers peace and 
amity, pardon for all offences — ay, and the hand of friendship, 
to all who will at once retire from this sacrilegious field. Sub- 
jects, your queen commands you ; nobles and knights, a lady, 
the fairest lady of her sex, appeals to your chivalry and honor. 
Hear, and be forgiven ! — " 

" Forgiven !" shouted Glencairn, in tones of deep feeling and 
yet deeper scorn — "forgiven! we came not here to ask for 
pardon, but for vengeance, and vengeance will we have ! The 
blood of Darnley craves for punishment upon his murderers ! 
We are come to punish ; not to sue for pardon, not to return in 
peace, until our end is gained, and Scotland's slaughtered king- 
avenged !" 

" Fair sir," cried Morton — calmer, and for that very reason 
more to be dreaded, than his impetuous comrades — "fair sir, 
we rear no banner and we lift no blade against her grace of 



358 BOTHWELL. 

Scotland ! Against her husband's murderer have we marched, 
nor will we turn a face, or draw a bridle, till that murderer lies 
in his blood, or flies for ever from the land he has polluted by 
his unnatural homicide ! Thou hast thine answer, sir. Yet 
thus much for our ancient friendship, and to testify our high 
esteem for the noble monarch whom thy services here repre- 
sent : here will we pause an hour. That passed, our word is, 
' Forward ! forward !' and may the God of battles judge between 
us ! Brothers in arms, and leaders of our host, say, have I 
spoken fairly ?" 

" Fairly hast thou spoken, noble Morton ; and as thou hast 
spoken, we will it so to be. An hour we pause, and then for- 
ward !" The voices of the barons, as they replied, gave no 
signs of hesitation ; there was no faltering in their tones, no 
wavering in their fixed and steady glances. At once the gal- 
lant mediator saw that he had failed in his appeal, and that all 
further words were needless. Slowly and disconsolately he 
bent his way back to the royal armament, where the miserable 
Mary awaited, in an agony of shame and anguish, the doom, for 
such in truth it was, of her rebellious subjects. 

On the summit of a little knoll she sat, girt by the few un- 
daunted spirits who clung to the last to Mary's cause, and who 
were ready at her least word to perish, if by perishing they 
might preserve her. Lovely as she had seemed in the gay 
halls of Holyrood, her brow beaming with rapture, innocence, 
majesty, far lovelier was she now in pale and hopeless sorrow. 
In the vain hope of inspiring ardor to her dispirited and coward 
forces, she had girt her slender form in glittering steel. A 
light, polished cavinet reflected the bright sunshine above her 
auburn tresses, and a cuirass of inlaid and jewelled metal flashed 
on her bosom. Not a warrior in either host sat firmer or more 
gracefully upon his destrier than Mary upon Rosabelle. A 
demipique of steel and loaded petronels, with the butt of which 



THE ANSWER. 359 

her fingers played in thoughtless nervousness, had replaced the 
rich housings of that favored jennet; but though arrayed in all 
the pride and pomp of war, there was neither pride nor pomp 
in the expression of that pallid cheek and quivering lip. 

" Noble Le Croc," she cried, breathless with eagerness as 
he approached her presence, " what tidings from our misguided 
subjects ? will they depart in peace ? Speak out, speak fully : 
this is no time for well-turned sentences or courteous etiquette. 
Say, is it peace or war ?" 

With deep feeling painted on his dark lineaments, the French- 
man answered : " War, your grace, war to the knife ; or peace 
on terms such as I dare not name to you." 

" Then be it war !" cried she, the eloquent blood mantling to 
her cheeks in glorious indignation, her eyes flashing, and her 
bosom heaving with emotion ; " then be it war ! We have 
stooped low enough in suing thus for peace from those whom 
we are born to govern, and we will stoop no longer. Better to 
die, to fall as our gallant father fell, leading his faithful country- 
men, devoted subjects, against enemies not half so fierce as 
these, who should be brothers. Sound trumpets, advance our 
guards ! Seyton, Fleming, Huntley, to your leadings, and ad- 
vance ! ourselves will see the tourney." 

" Your grace forgets," replied the experienced leader to whom 
she first addressed herself, " your grace forgets that not one 
dastard of this fair army, as it shows upon this ground of van- 
tage, will advance one lance's length against the foe. Some 
scores there are, in truth, followers oft tried and ever-faithful 
of mine own, and some if I mistake not of the earl of Orkney, 
who will fight well when shaft and steel-point hold together ; 
but 'twere but butchery to lead the rugged vassals upon certain 
death ! for what are scores to thousands such as stand thirsting 
for the battle yonder — thousands led on, too, by the first mar- 
tialists of Europe ? Nevertheless, say but the word, and it is 



360 BOTHWELL. 

done. Seyton hath ever lived for Stuart — it rests but now 
to die !" He paused — but in an instant, taking his cue from 
Mary's extended nostril and still-flashing eye, he shouted, in a 
voice of thunder : " Mount, mount, and make ready ! A Sey- 
ton, a Seyton for the Stuart!" Already had he dashed the 
rowels into his steed, and another instant would have precipi- 
tated his little band upon the inevitable destruction that awaited 
them in the crowded ranks which, at the well-known sound of 
that wild slogan, had brought their lances to the charge, and 
waited but a word to bear down all opposition. 

Happily, so miserable a consummation was warded off. The 
earl of Orkney, who had stood silent and thunder-stricken by 
the side of his lovely bride, sprang forward, and grasping with 
impetuous vehemence the bridle-rein of Seyton — 

" Not so !" he hissed through his set teeth, " not so, brave 
baron ; this is my quarrel now, mine only ; and dost think that 
I will veil my crest to mortal man ? Lo ! in yonder lines the 
haughty rebels have drawn their weapons, and against me only 
shall they wield them ! What, ho there, heralds ! take pursui- 
vant and trumpet, and bear my gauntlet, the earl of Orkney's 
gauntlet, to yonder misproud caitiffs : say that Bothwell defies 
them — defies them to the mortal combat, here before this com- 
pany, here in the presence of men and angels, to prove his in- 
nocence, their bold and overweening treason !" — and he hurled 
his ponderous glove to earth. 

" Well said and nobly, gallant earl !" cried Seyton ; " so shall 
this foul calumny be stayed, and floods of Scottish blood be 
spared. On to thy devoir, and God will shield the right." 

And at the word the heralds rode forth again, the foremost 
bearing the glove of the challenger high on a lance's point. 
Again the trumpets flourished, but not now as before, in peace- 
ful strains. At the loud clangor of defiance, the confederate 
chiefs again strode to the front, their horses led behind them by 



CHALLENGE TO SINGLE COMBAT. 361 

page or squire ; and as the menace of the challenger was pro- 
claimed loudly and clearly by the king-at-arms, a smile of fierce 
delight flashed over every brow. 

" I claim the privilege of battle !" shouted the impetuous Glen- 
cairn. 

" And I !" — " And 1 !" — " And I !" rose hoarsely into air the 
mingled tones of Morton, Lyndesay, and Kirkaldy, as each 
sprang forth to seize the proffered gauntlet. " I am the senior 
baron !" shouted one. " And I the leader of the van !" cried 
another ; and for a minute's space all was confusion, verging 
fast toward strife, among those chiefs of late so closely linked 
together — till the deep, sonorous voice of Murray, in after-days 
the regent of the realm, was heard above the tumult. 

" For shame, my lords, for shame ! Seems it. so much of 
honor to do the hangman's office on a murderer, that ye would 
mar our fair array with this disgraceful bruit for the base privi- 
lege ? By Heaven, should the duty fall on me, I should per- 
form it, doubtless, even as I would prefer the meanest work 
that came before me under the name of duty ; but, trust me, I 
should hold the deed a blot upon mine ancient escutcheon, 
rather than honor! But to the deed, my lords; the herald 
awaits our answer. Lord Lyndesay, thine is the strongest 
claim : if thou wilt undertake the deed, thou hast my voice." 

" As joyfully," muttered Lyndesay beneath his grizzly mus- 
tache, " as joyfully as to the banquet do I go forth against the 
craven traitor! Morton, lend me thy falchion for the trial — 
the two-handed espaldron which slew Spens of Kilspindie, at 
the brook of Fala, in the hands of Archibald of Douglas, thy 
renowned forefather. God give me grace to wield it, and it 
shall do as trusty service on the carcass of yon miscreant !" 

" It is decided, then," cried Murray : and not a voice replied, 
for none had the presumption to dispute the fitness of the choice 
which thus had fallen on a leader so renowned for strength and 

16 



362 BOTHWELL. 

valor. " Herald," he continued, " go bear our greeting to her 
majesty of Scotland, and say to her, we do accept the challenge. 
An hour's truce we grant — an equal field here, on this hill of 
Carbury. The noble earl of Lyndesay will here prove, upon 
the crest and limbs of that false recreant, James, some time the 
earl of Bothwell, the justice of our cause : and so may God 
defend the right !" 

The shout which rang from earth to heaven, at the noble 
confidence of Murray, bore to the ears of Mary and her trem- 
bling followers the assurance that the challenge was accepted ; 
an assurance that sounded joyfully in every ear but that of his 
who uttered the bravado. Many a time and oft had BothwelFs 
crest shone foremost in the tide of battle ; many a time had he 
confronted deadliest odds with an undaunted visage and a vic- 
torious blade. Yet now he faltered ; his bold brow blanched 
with sudden apprehension ; his frame, muscular and lofty as a 
giant's, actually shook with terror ; and his quivering lip paled, 
ere he heard the name of his antagonist. Whether it was that 
guilt sat heavy on his heart, and weighed his strong arm down, 
or that his soul was cowed by the consciousness that he was 
unsupported and forsaken by all his friends, he turned upon his 
heel, and, muttering some inarticulate sounds, half lost within 
the hollows of his beaver, he strode to his pavilion, and thence 
sent his squire forth, to say that he was ill at ease, and could 
not fight until the morrow ! Mary herself — the fond, confiding, 
deceived Mary — burst on the instant into loud contempt at this 
hardly-credible baseness. 

" What ! James of Bothwell false !" she cried ; " then perish 
hope ! I yield me to the malice of my foes ; I will resist no 
longer. O man, man — base, coward, miserable man! — is it 
for this we give our hearts, our lives, ourselves, to your vile 
guidance ? is it for this that I have given thee mine all — mine 
honor, and, perchance, my soul ? that thou shouldst cowardly 



THE CONDITIONAL SURRENDER. 363 

desert me at mine utmost need ! Little, oh how little, doth the 
cold world know of woman's heart and woman's courage ! For 
thee would I have perished, oh, how joyfully! — and thou, O 
God ! God ! it is a bitter, bitter punishment for my credulity 
and love : but if I have deserved to suffer, I deserved it not at 
thy hands, James of Bothwell ! Seyton, true friend, to thee I 
trust mine all. Go summon Kirkaldy to a parley : say Mary, 
queen of Scotland, rather than look upon the blood of Scottish- 
men, will grant to her rebellious lords those terms which they 
desire! Nay, interrupt us not, Lord Seyton. We care not 
what befall that frozen viper whom we warmed within our 
bosom till he stung us ! Away ! — let Orkney quit our camp ; for, 
by the glorious light of heaven, we never will behold him more !" 

She spoke with an elevated voice, and features glowing with 
contending passions, till the faithful baron had departed on his 
mission ; but then, then the false strength yielded to despair, 
and in an agony of unfettered grief she sank into the arms of 
her attendants, murmuring amid her tears, " God, how I did 
adore that man !" and was borne, almost a corpse, into her tent. 

An hour passed heavily away, and at its close Mary came 
forth, with a brow from which, though pale as the first dawn- 
ing, every trace of grief had vanished. The terms had been 
accepted. Without a tear she saw the man for whom she had 
sacrificed all — all, to her very reputation — mount and depart 
for ever ! Without a tear she backed her own brave palfrey, 
and rode, attended by a dozen servitors, faithful amid her sor- 
rows as they had been in brighter days, into the rebel host. 
Little was there of courtesy, of that demeanor which becomes 
a subject in presence of his queen, a true knight before a lady. 
Amid the taunts and jeers of the vile soldiery, covered with 
dust and humiliation, she entered upon that, fatal progress which, 
commencing in a conditional surrender, ended only when she 
was immured, beyond a hope of rescue or redemption, within 
the dungeon-towers of Loch Leven ! 



THE CAPTIVITY. 

"Long years! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear, 
And eagle-spirit of a child of song — 
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong; 
And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 
When the impatient thirst of light and air 
Scorches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, 
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain 
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain!" — Lament of Tasso. 

Eighteen long years of solitary grief — of that most wretched 
sickness that arises, even to a proverb, from hope too long de- 
ferred — had already passed away since, in the fatal action of 
Langside, the wretched Mary had for the last time seen her 
banner fall, and her adherents scattered like chaff before the 
wind by the determined valor of her foes. All, all was lost ! 
It had been the work of months to draw that gallant army to a 
head, of which so many now lay stark in their curdled gore ; 
while the miserable remnant were hunted like beasts of chase, 
to perish, when taken, upon the ignominious scaffold. And 
now, of all the noble gentlemen who had thronged to her bridle- 
rein on that fatal morning, high in hope as in valor, the merest 
had escaped to guard the person of that sovereign whom they 
loved so truly, and in behalf of whom they had endured so 
deeply. Her crown was lost for ever ; nor her crown only, but 
her country. 

Of all the glorious gifts which, at an earlier period of her 
eventful life, nature appeared to shower upon her head, freedom 
alone remained. The palfrey which bore her from the battle- 
field was now the sole possession of the titular monarch of three 
fair domains ; the wild moors, over which she fled in desperate 



THE FUGITIVE QUEEN. 365 

haste, her only refuge from persecutors the most unrelenting 
that ever joined sagacity to hatred in the performance of their 
plans ; the dozen gallant hearts who rallied yet around their 
queen, beneath the guiding of the stout and loyal Herries, her 
only court, her only subjects. Still she was free ; and to one 
who for months before had never seen the blessed light of 
heaven but its lustre was sullied by the dim panes through 
which it forced its way, to lend no solace to her captivity, the 
fresh breeze which eddied across the purple moorlands of her 
native land had still the power to impart a sense of pleasure, 
fleeting, it is true, and doubtful, but still, in all its forms and 
essentials, absolute and real pleasure. 

At the full distance of sixty Scottish miles from the accursed 
field which had witnessed the downfall of all her hopes, worn 
out in body and depressed in spirit, she paused to take, in the 
abbey of Dundrennan, a few hours of that repose without which, 
even in the most trying circumstances, the mind can not exist 
in its undiminished powers. At this juncture, it appeared to 
those about her person that Mary was utterly deserted by that 
wonderful sagacity, that clear insight into the motives of others, 
which had ever constituted one of the strongest points of her 
character. The chief object of the faithful few, who had clung 
to her with unblenching steadiness through this her last misfor- 
tune, had been to bear her in security to some point whence 
she might effect her escape to the sunny shores of that land 
wherein she had passed the happiest, the only truly happy, 
hours of her checkered existence. Queen-dowager herself of 
France, knit by the closest ties of interest and friendship to the 
court of Versailles — to which, moreover, Scotland had ever 
been considered an auxiliar and well-affected state, no less than 
an easy pretext for hostilities against its natural antagonist — 
she had been there secure, not of safety only, but of the full 
enjoyment of rank, and wealth, and dignity, and pleasure, if 



366 THE CAPTIVITY. 

indeed pleasure were yet within the reach of one who had her- 
self suffered, and who had beheld all those that loved her suffer, 
as Mary the last queen of Scotland. Inclination, it would have 
seemed, no less than policy, should have urged the hapless sov- 
ereign to the measure advocated by each and all of her devoted 
train ; for but a few years had flown since she had felt all those 
pangs which render exile to a delicate and sensitive mind the 
heaviest of human punishments, on parting from the fair shores 
of that land, which even then perhaps some prophetic spirit 
whispered, she must behold no more ! Herries, the bold and 
loyal Herries, bent his knee, stiffened with years of toil and 
exposure, to sue of his adored mistress the only boon of all his 
labors, all his sufferings, that she would avoid the fatal soil of 
England. 

" Remember," he had cried, in tones which seemed in after- 
days of more than human foresight — " remember how the false 
and wily woman, who sways the sceptre of England with ab- 
solute and undisputed sway — remember, I say, with what un- 
flinching determination she has thwarted you in every wish of 
your heart ; with what depth of secret enmity she has at all 
times, and in all places, cherished your foes, and injured all 
who were most dear to you! and wherefore, oh wherefore, my 
beloved mistress, wherefore should her course of action now 
be altered, when she has no longer a powerful queen with 
whom to strive, but rather a fugitive rival to oppress 1 Eliza- 
beth of England — believe me, noble lady — has marked this 
crisis as it drew nigh, with that unerring instinct which directs 
the blood-raven to its destined victim while life yet revels in its 
veins ; and surely, so surely as you enter her accursed eyry, shall 
you feel her vulture-talons busy about your heartstrings ! For 
years, my noble mistress, has Herries been your servant ; at 
council or in field, with ready hand and true word, has he ever 
served the Stuart. It becomes me not to boast, yet will I speak : 



THE LOYAL VETERAN. 367 

when Seyton, and Ogilvy, and Huntley, were dismayed — when 
Hamilton himself hung back — Henries was ever nigh." 

" Ever, ever true and loyal !" cried the hapless queen, touched 
even beyond the consideration of her own calamities by the 
speech of the brave veteran — "my noble, noble Herries, and 
bitter, most bitter has been the reward of truth and valor ; but 
so has it ever been with Mary. I tell thee, baron, for me to 
love a bird, a tree, a flower, much less a creature such as thou 
art, an honorable, upright, and devoted friend, was but that crea- 
ture's doom : all whom I have loved have I destroyed ! Alas, 
alas for the undaunted spirits that were severed from the forms 
they filled so nobly, on that dark battle-field !" 

" Think not of them, my liege — mourn not for them," inter- 
rupted the baron. " Knightly, and in their duty, have they 
fallen. Their last blow was stricken, and their last slogan 
shouted, in a cause the fairest, that ever hallowed warrior's 
blade. They are at rest, and they are happy. But think of 
those who, having lost their earthly all to save thee, would yet 
esteem themselves pre-eminently happy so they might see thee 
free and in security. Oh ! hear me, Mary — hear for the first, 
last time — hear the prayer of Herries ! Go not, go not — as 
you love life, and dignity, and liberty — as you would prove 
your faith to those who have never been faithless to you — go 
not to this accursed England !" 

But it had all been vain. The fiat had gone forth, and rea- 
son had deserted, as it would seem, the destined victim. No 
arguments, however lucid — no fears, however natural, could 
divert her from this fatal project. With the choice of good and 
evil fairly set before her — honor, and rank, and liberty, in 
France, a prison and an axe in England — deliberately and res- 
olutely she rushed upon her fate ! And when she might have 
found a willing asylum in the arms of kindred monarchs, she 
yielded herself to the tender mercies of a rival queen, a rival 



368 THE CAPTIVITY. 

beauty ; a fierce, unforgiving, unfeminine foe ; a being who, as 
she aped the name, so also displayed the attributes and nature 
of the lion ! How could Mary — a professed foe, a claimant of 
her crown, a woman fairer, and of brighter parts even than her 
own — a mother, while she was but a barren stake — how could 
Mary, with so many causes to awaken her deathless hostility, 
hope for generosity or for mercy from a queen who could even 
sacrifice without a pang her inclinations to her interest ; whose 
favors but marshalled those on whom they fell to the scaffold 
and the block ; whose dearest favorites, whose most faithful 
servants had fallen, one by one, beneath the headsman's axe ; 
who had proved herself, in short, a worthy heiress to the soul- 
less tyrant from whom she had sprung, by the violence of her 
uncurbed passions, and by the hereditary pleasure with which, 
through all her long and glorious reign (glorious, as it is termed, 
for with the multitude the ends will ever justify the means, and 
foreign conquest hallow domestic tyranny), she rioted in inno- 
cent and noble blood ! 

The Rubicon had been passed — and scarcely passed, before 
Mary had discovered the entire justice, no less than the deep 
love, manifested by the parting words of Herries. As her last 
sovereignty, she had stepped aboard the barge that was to waft 
her from her discontented and ungrateful subjects to a free and 
happy home, as she too fondly hoped, in merry England. Girt 
with the bills and bows which had battened so deeply and so 
often in the gore of Scottishmen, gallantly dressed, and himself 
of gallant bearing, Lowther, the sheriff of the marches, received 
the royal fugitive. With every mark of deference that manly 
strength is bound to show to female weakness, with all the chiv- 
alrous respect a good knight is compelled by his order to dis- 
play to innocence and beauty — nay, more, with all the profound 
humility of a subject before his queen — did he conduct the 
hapless lady aboard his bark. Yet, while the words of wel- 



ELIZABETHS LYNX-EYED JEALOUSY. 369 

come were upon his tongue, while he dwelt with loyal eager- 
ness on the sincerity and love of England's Elizabeth toward 
her sister-queen — by his refusal to admit above a limited and 
trifling portion of her train to share the asylum of their mistress, 
he had already drawn the distinction between the royal captive 
and the royal guest. 

And so it afterward appeared. In vain did Mary petition as 
a favor, or claim as a right, an interview with her relentless 
persecutor. She should have known that even if Elizabeth 
could, by her constitution, have pardoned her assumption of the 
style or titles of the English monarchy, she could yet never over- 
look, never forgive her surpassing loveliness, her elegant ac- 
complishments, her brilliant wit, her more than mortal grace ! 
She might have condescended to despise the rival queen — she 
could only stoop to hate the rival beauty. From castle to cas- 
tle had she been transferred, with no regard for either her rank 
or convenience. From prison to prison, from warder to warder, 
had she been conveyed, as each abode seemed in turn insecure 
to the lynx-eyed jealousy of her tormentor, or every jailer in 
turn sickened at the loathsome weariness of his hateful and de- 
grading employment. No better proof — if proof were needed 
— could be adduced of Elizabeth's tyrannical and cruel despo- 
tism, than the unconstitutional authority by which she forced 
noble after noble, the very pride and flower of the English aris- 
tocracy, to change their castles into prisonhouses, their house- 
holds into warders and turnkeys, their very lives into a state of 
anxious misery, which could only be surpassed by that of the 
unhappy prisoner they were, so contrary to their will, compelled 
to guard. 

After the base mockery of the trial instituted at York, but a 
few months after her arrival — that trial wherein a brother was 
brought forward to convict his sister of adultery and murder — 
that trial which, though it pronounced the prisoner unconvicted, 

16* 



370 THE CAPTIVITY. 

yet inflicted on her all the penalties of conviction — it scarcely 
appears that Mary ever entertained a hope of obtaining her lib- 
erty, much less the station which was her right, from either the 
justice or the generosity of the lion-queen. In vain had every 
course been tried, in vain had every human means been em- 
ployed. In vain had Scotland sued ; in vain had France and 
Spain threatened, and even prepared to act upon their threats. 
For Mary there was no amelioration, no change ! 

From day to day, from year to year, her hopes had fallen 
away one by one. Her spirits, so buoyant and elastic once, 
had now subsided into a heavy, settled gloom ; her very charms 
were but a wreck and shadow of their former glory. For a 
time she had endeavored, by all those beautiful occupations of 
the pencil, the needle, or the lyre, in which none had equalled 
her in her young days of happiness, to while away the deep 
and engrossing weariness which by long endurance becomes 
even worse than pain. For a time she had been permitted to 
vary the monotony of her domestic labors by her favorite exer- 
cises in the field and forest. Surrounded by a train of mail- 
clad horsemen, warders with bended bows and loaded arque- 
buses, she had a few times been allowed to ride forth into the 
free woodland, and to forget, amid the gay sights and heart- 
stirring sounds of the chase, the cares that were heavy at her 
heart. But how should that heart forget, when at every turn 
it encountered the haggard eye of the anxious keeper — anxious, 
for the slightest relaxation of his duty were certain death! 
How should the ear thrill to the enlivening music of the pack, 
or to the wild flourish of the bugles, when the clash of steel 
announced on every side the minions of her oppressor ? How 
should the gallop over the velvet turf, beneath the luxuriant 
shadow of the immemorial oaks, convey aught of freshness to 
the spirit that was about to return thence to chambers no less a 
dungeon for being decked with the mockeries of state, than 



WILD AND FEARFUL RUMORS. 371 

though they had presented to the eye those common accesso- 
ries of bar, and grate, and chain, which they failed not to set 
before the mind ? After a while, even these liberties were 
curtailed ! It seemed too much of freedom, that the titular sov- 
ereign of three realms — the cynosure of every eye, the beauty 
at whose very name every heart thrilled and every pulse 
bounded — should be permitted to taste the common air of 
heaven, even when hemmed in, without the possibility of es- 
cape, by guards armed to the teeth, and sworn to exercise those 
arms, not only against all who should attempt the rescue, but 
against the miserable captive herself, should she attempt to 
profit by any efforts made for her release ! 

And efforts were made — efforts by the best and noblest of 
the British peerage — by men whose names were almost suffi- 
cient to turn defeat to victory and shame to glory. Norfolk and 
Westmoreland, and a hundred others, of birth scarcely less dis- 
tinguished, and of virtues no less brilliant, revolted from the 
soul-debasing despotism of Elizabeth, and attempted, now by 
secret, stratagem, and now by open warfare, to force the victim 
from the clutches of the lion. With the deepest regret did 
Mary witness the destruction of so many noble spirits, and with 
yet deeper fury did Elizabeth behold star after star of her 
boasted galaxy of nobles shoot madly from their spheres in pur- 
suit of a meteor. Bitter were her feelings, and deadly was her 
vengeance. The bloody reign of Mary might almost have been 
deemed to have returned, as day by day the death-bells tolled, 
as the traitor's gate admitted another and another occupant to 
that above, whence the only egress was by the axe and scaf- 
fold. Nor was this all. A thousand wild and fearful rumors 
began to float among the multitude. The perils of a catholic 
insurrection, the intended assassination of the queen, the estab- 
lishment of a papistical dynasty upon the throne of England, 
were topics of ordinary conversation, but of no ordinary excite- 



372 THE CAPTIVITY. 

merit. At one time it was reported that a Spanish fleet was 
actually in the channel ; at another that the duke of Guise, with 
a vast army, had effected a landing on the Kentish coast, and 
might hourly be expected in the capital. Nor is it uncharitable 
to suppose that these reports were designedly spread abroad, 
this excitement purposely kept alive, by the wily ministers of 
Elizabeth. That the despot-queen had long ago determined on 
the slaughter of her rival, is certain ; nor have we any just 
cause for doubting that Bacon and Walsingham were men as 
fully capable of goading the terrors of a multitude into fury as 
was their mistress of recommending the private murder of her 
hapless victim ! 

It was at this period that popular madness was raised to its 
utmost height by the detection of Babington's conspiracy. Rich, 
young, brave, and romantic ; stimulated by the hope of gaining 
the hand of Mary, forgetful that the personal loveliness for 
which she had once been conspicuous must long have yielded to 
the joint influence of misery and time ; and deceived by the fatal 
maxim, then too much in vogue, that means are justified by ends 

— this gentleman resolved on bringing about the liberation of the 
Scottish by the murder of the English queen. The affair was 
not looked upon as so atrocious, but that twelve associates were 
easily found for the execution of the plot ; and it is barely pos- 
sible that, had they proceeded at once to action, their desperate 
effort, might have been crowned with success. They delayed 

— they talked — they were discovered ! Beneath the protracted 
agonies of the question, one was found of these convicted trai- 
tors who asserted the privity of Mary to the whole affair ; and 
at once, as though a torch had been applied to some train long 
prepared, the whole of England burst forth into a perfect frenzy 
of terror. A people are never so terrible, never so barbarous, 
as when they are thoroughly and needlessly terrified. From 
every quarter of the kingdom the cry was at once for blood ; 



Elizabeth's hypocritical regrets. 373 

and Elizabeth, looking in cool delight upon the tumult, per- 
ceived that the moment had arrived when she might gratify, 
without fear, her jealous thirst for her hated guest's destruction. 
Addresses showered into either house of parliament, beseech- 
ing the queen and her ministers to awaken themselves at once 
to the perils of the people ; to provide against the impended 
dangers of a catholic succession ; and to remove at once all 
possibility of future conspiracies by the immediate removal of 
her who was, as they asserted, not the cause only, but the prin- 
cipal mover of every successive plot. 

It is not to be supposed that, after pining so long in secret 
for an opportunity of gratifying her malice, Elizabeth doubted 
an instant. It is true indeed that, with a loathsome affectation 
of tender-heartedness, she pretended to regret the stern neces- 
sity ; that she whined forth doleful remonstrances to her trusty 
ministers, entreating them to discover some mode by which 
she might herself be preserved from the risk of assassination, 
without undergoing the misery of seeing her well-beloved cousin 
of Scotland suffer in her stead ! Well, however, did those min- 
isters know the meaning of the motives of their odious mistress ; 
well were they aware that there was no more of pity or reluc- 
tance in the bosom of Elizabeth than there is of mirth in that 
of the hyena when he sends forth his yells of laughter above 
his mangled prey ! 

It was a lovely morning in the autumn ; the sun was shed- 
ding a mellow light upon the long glades and velvet turf of a 
park -like lawn before the feudal towers of the earl of Shrews- 
bury. Before the gate were assembled a group of liveried do- 
mestics, with many a noble steed pawing the earth and champ- 
ing its foamy bits ; hounds clamored in their couples, and falcons 
shook themselves and clapped their restless wings in vain im- 
patience. It was evident that the attendants were but awaiting 
the approach of some distinguished personage, to commence 



374 THE CAPTIVITY. 

their sports ; and by their whispered conversation it appeared 
that this personage was no other than the wretched Mary. 
The castle-gates were thrown open ; a heavy guard, with ar- 
quebuss, and pike, and bow, filed through the gloomy gateway ; 
and then, leaning upon the arm of the still stately Shrewsbury, 
the poor victim of inveterate persecution came slowly forward. 
Several gentlemen in rich attire, and among them Sir Thomas 
Georges, blazing in the royal liveries of England, yet bearing 
on his soiled buskins and the bloody spurs that graced them 
tokens of a long and hasty journey, followed ; and another band 
of warders brought up the rear. 

The charms which had once rendered Mary the loveliest of 
her sex, had faded, it is true ; the dimpled cheek was sunken, 
and its hues, that once had vied with the carnation, had fled 
for ever ; her tresses were no longer of that rich and golden 
brown that had furnished subjects for a thousand sonnets, for 
many a line of gray marked the premature and wintry blight 
which had been cast upon her beauties by the sternness and 
misery of her latter years. Still, there was an air of such 
sweet resignation in every feature, such a dignity in the port 
of her person — still symmetrical, though it had lost something 
of its roundness — such a majesty in her still-brilliant eyes — 
that even the wretches who had determined on her destruction 
dared not meet the glance of her whom they so foully wronged. 

She was already seated in the saddle, and the reins just 
grasped in a delicate but masterly hand, when Georges, step- 
ping forward and bending a knee — almost, as it would seem, 
in mockery — informed her that her confederates in the medi- 
tated slaughter of Elizabeth were convicted; that it was the 
pleasure of the queen that her grace of Scotland should proceed 
at once to the sure castle of Fotheringay, and that it was re- 
solved that she should set forth upon the instant. For a mo- 
ment, but for a single moment, did Mary gaze into the eyes of 



REMOVAL TO FOTHERINGAY CASTLE. 375 

the courtly speaker, with a gaze of incredulity, almost of ter- 
ror ; a quick shudder ran through every limb ; and once she 
wrung her hands bitterly — but not a word escaped her pallid 
lips, not a tear disgraced her noble race. 

" It is well, sir," she said, " it is well. We thank you, no 
less for your pleasant tidings, than the knightly considerations 
which prompted you to choose so well your opportunity for con- 
veying them to our ear when we were about to set forth in 
search of such brief pleasure as might for a moment gild the 
monotony of a prisoner's life ! We thank you, sir, most warmly, 
and we doubt not your own noble heart will reward you by that 
best of gifts, a happy and approving conscience ! For the rest 
— lead on ! it matters little to the wretched and the captive by 
what title the prison-bars, which shut them out from light, and 
liberty, and hope, are dignified ; and well do we know that for 
us there is but one exit from our dungeon, or rest from our 
calamities — the grave!" 

She had commenced her speech in that tone of calm and 
polished raillery for which she had in her earlier days been so 
renowned, and which even pierced deeper into the feelings of 
those who writhed beneath it than the most bitter sarcasm ; but 
her concluding sentences were uttered with deep feeling: and, 
as she turned her liquid eyes toward heaven, it seemed most 
wonderful that men should exist capable of exciting a single 
pang in the heart of such a creature. 

The gates of Fotheringay received her ; and, as she rode be- 
neath the gloomy archway, a prophetic chill fell upon her soul, 
and she felt that here her wanderings and her sorrows would 
shortly be brought to a close ! Scarcely had she reached the 
miserable privacy of her chamber, when steps were heard with- 
out. Mildmay, Paulet, and Barker, entered, and delivering a 
letter full of hypocritical regrets and feigned affection, informed 
her that the queen's commissioners were even then assembled 



376 THE CAPTIVITY. 

in the castle-hall, and prayed the lady Mary to descend and 
refute the foul charges preferred against her name. 

Enfeebled as she had been by sufferings and sorrows, wea- 
ried by her long and rapid journey, and, above all things, 
crushed by this last blow, it little seemed that so frail and deli- 
cate a form could have contained a soul so mighty as flashed 
forth in one blaze of indignation. Her pale cheek crimsoned, 
her sunken eye glared with unwonted fire ; she started upon 
her feet, her limbs trembling, not with terror or debility, but 
with strong and terrible excitement. 

" Knows not your mistress," she cried, in clear, high tones, 
" that I, too, am a queen ? or would she knowingly debase the 
dignity which is common to her with me 1 Away ! I will not 
deign to plead! I — I, the queen of Scotland, the mother and 
the wife of kings — I plead to mine inferiors? Go tell your 
mistress that neither eighteen years of vile captivity, nor dread, 
nor misery, has sunk the soul of Mary Stuart so low, that she 
will speak one syllable to guard her life, save in the presence 
of her peers ! Let her assemble her high courts of parliament, 
if she so will it : to them, and to them only, will I plead. Here 
she may slay me, it is true ; but she must slay me by the as- 
sassin's knife, not by the prostituted sword of justice. I have 
spoken!" — and she threw herself at once into a seat, immove- 
able alike in position and in resolve. 

Well had it been for her had she continued firm in that de- 
termination ; but what could a weak woman's unassisted intel- 
lect avail against the united force of talents such as those of 
Hatton and Burleigh 1 A thousand specious arguments were 
summoned to overcome her scruples, but summoned all in vain, 
till the last hint — that her unwillingness to plead could arise 
only from a consciousness of guilt — aroused her. Pride, fatal 
pride, determined the debate, and she descended. Eloquently, 
sorrowfully, manfully, did she plead her cause, combating the 



THE TRIAL. 377 

vile chicaneries, the extorted evidences, the absence or the 
want of legal witnesses, with the native powers of a clear and 
vigorous mind. Once during that judicial mockery did her pas- 
sions burst the control of her judgment, and she openly, in full 
court, charged the secretary, Walsingham — and, as many now 
believe, most justly charged him — with the forgery of the only 
documents that bore upon her character, or on the case in point. 
But all was fruitless ! For what eloquence should convince 
men resolved in any circumstances to convict ? w T hat facts 
should clear away the imputed guilt of one whom it was fully 
determined to destroy ? 

The trial was concluded. With the air of a queen she stood 
erect, with a calm brow and serene eye, as the commissioners 
departed, one by one. No doom had been pronounced against 
her, but she read it in the eyes of all ; and as she saw her mis- 
named judges quit her presence, she muttered, in the low notes 
of a determined spirit : " The tragedy is well nigh closed — 
the last act is at hand! Peace — peace — I soon shall find 
thee in the grave." 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 

"Still as the lips that's closed in death, 
Each gazer's bosom held his breath ; 
But yet afar, from man to man, 
A cold, electric shiver ran, 
As down the deadly blow descended, 
On her whose love and life thus ended." — Parisina. 

It was a dark, but lovely night ; moonless, but liquid and 
transparent; the stars which gemmed the firmament glittered 
more brightly from the absence of the mightier planet, and from 
the influence of a slight degree of frost upon the atmosphere, 
although it was indeed so slight, that its presence could be 
traced only in the crispness of the herbage, and in the uncom- 
mon purity of the heavens. Beneath a sky such as I have 
vainly endeavored to portray, the towers of Fotheringay rose 
black and dismal above the ancestral oaks and sweeping glades 
of its demesne. It would have appeared to a casual observer 
that all were at rest, buried in utter forgetfulness of all their 
hopes and sorrows, within that massive pile, save the lonely 
sentinel, whose progress round the battlements, although invis- 
ible, might be traced by the clatter of his harness, and the sul- 
len echoes of his steel-shod stride. But to a nearer and more 
accurate survey, a single light, feebly twinkling through a case- 
ment of the dungeon-keep, told a far different tale. At times 
that solitary ray streamed in unbroken lines far into the bosom 
of the darkness ; at times it was momentarily obscured, as if by 
the passage of some opaque body, though the transit, if such it 
were, was too brief to reveal the form or motions of the obsta- 
cle. Once, however, the shadow paused, and then, as its out- 
lines stood forth in strong relief against the illumination of the 



THE EVENING BEFORE EXECUTION. 379 

chamber, the delicate proportions and musing attitude of a fe- 
male might be discerned with certainty. It was the queen of 
Scotland. Her earthly sorrows were drawing to their close ; 
the peace, for which she had long ceased to look, save in the 
silence of the tomb, was now within her grasp. Mary's last 
sun had set. 

Of life she had taken her farewell long, long ago ; and death 
— the bugbear of the happy, the terror of the dastard — dark, 
mysterious, unknown death — had become to her an intimate, 
and, as it were, familiar friend. It was not that she had les- 
soned her shrinking spirit to endure with calmness that which 
it had shuddered to encounter ; it was not that she had weaned 
her heart, yet clinging to the vanities of a heartless world, with 
difficulty and trembling, to their abandonment ; least of all was 
it. that she had been taught to regard that final separation with 
the stoic's apathy, or to look for that dull and sunless rest, that 
absence of all feelings, whether of good or evil ; that total an- 
nihilation of mind, in the great hereafter, which, to a sensitive 
temperament, and soul not rendered wholly callous by the de- 
basing contact with this world's idols, must seem a punishment 
secondary, if secondary, only to an eternity of wo. Born to a 
station lofty as the most vaulting ambition could desire, nurtured 
in gentleness and luxury, gifted with a mind such as rarely 
dwells within a mortal form, and having that mind invested in a 
frame, by its resplendent beauty fitted to be the door of immor- 
tality, she had felt, in a succession of sorrows almost unexam- 
pled, that the very qualities which should have ministered to 
her for bliss, had been converted into the instruments of misery 
and pain. Attached to her native land with the Switzer's pa- 
triotism, she had endured from it the extremities of scorn and 
hatred. Full of the warmest sympathies even for the meanest 
of mankind, she had never loved a single being but he had 
recompensed that love with coals of fire heaped upon her head ; 



380 THE CLOSING SCENE. 

or if a few had- passed unscathed through the trying ordeal of 
benefits received, they had themselves miserably perished for 
their gratitude toward one whose love seemed fated to blight 
the virtues, or destroy the being of all on whom it was bestowed. 
If the sun of her morning had ridden gloriously forth in a se- 
rene heaven, with the promise of a splendid noontide and an 
unclouded setting, yet scarcely had it scaled one half of its me- 
ridian height, ere it had been compassed about with gloom and 
darkness ; and ere its setting the thunders had rolled and the 
deadly lightnings flashed between the daygod and its scattered 
worshippers. She had been led step by step from the keenest 
enjoyment to the utmost disregard of the pleasures of the earth; 
she had drained the cup, and knew its bitterness too well to 
languish for a second draught. Yet there was nothing of re- 
sentment, nothing of hard-heartedness or scorn, in the feelings 
with which she looked back on the world and its adorers. 
She did not despise the many for that they still lingered in pur- 
suit of a star which she had found, by sad experience, to be but 
a delusive meteor ; much less did she hate the happy few to 
whom that valley, which had been to her indeed a vale of tears 
and of the shadow of death, had been a region of perpetual sun- 
shine and unclouded happiness. 

From Mary's earliest years there had been a deep spring of 
piety in her heart which, never utterly dried up, though choked 
at times, and turned from its true course by the thorny cares 
and troubles of life, had burst from the briers which so long con- 
cealed it in redouhled purity as it flowed nearer to the close. 
There was an innate tenderness in all her sentiments toward 
all men and all things which could never degenerate into hatred, 
much less into misanthropy. She looked then upon life in its 
true light ; as a mingled landscape, now obscured by clouds, 
now called into glory by the sunshine ; as a region, tangled here 
with forests, and cumbered with barren rocks, there swelling 



** 



RESIGNATION. 381 

into hills of vintage, or subsiding into glens of verdure. And 
if to her the landscape had been most viewed beneath the influ- 
ence of a dark and threatening sky — if to her life's path had 
lain, for the most part, through the wilderness and over the 
mountains — she knew that such was the result of her own mis- 
fortune, perhaps of her own misconduct, not of defect in the 
wonderful contrivance, or of improvidence in the all-glorious 
contriver. 

In proportion as she had learned to dwell on the insufficiency 
of earthly good to satiate that deep thirst for happiness which 
is not the least among the proofs of the soul's immortality, she 
had come to look upon the void of futurity as the unexplored 
region of bliss ; upon death as the portal through which we 
must pass from the desert of toil and sorrow to the Eden of 
hope and happiness. That she was drawing rapidly near to 
this portal she had for a long time been aware ; and, during the 
latter years of her captivity, she had longed to see the leaves 
of that gate unfolded for her exit, with a sense of pining sick- 
ness, similar to that of the imprisoned eagle. The mockery of 
her trial she had beheld as the avenue through which she 
should arrive, and that right shortly, at the desired end; and 
although she knew that the scaffold and the axe, or the secret 
knife of the assassin, must need be the key to that gate, she 
recked but little of the means, so that the way of escape was left 
open to her. 

She had pleaded, it is true, with brilliant eloquence and ear- 
nestness, in behalf, not of life, but of her honor. She wished 
for death, and she cared not for the vulgar ignominy of the 
scaffold ; but she did care, she did shrink from the ignominy 
of a condemnation — a condemnation not by the suborned com- 
missioners, not by the jealous rival, not by the perjured and 
terror-stricken populace of the day, but by Time and by Eter- 
nity. This was the condemnation from which she shrank ; 



382 THE CLOSING SCENE. 

this was the ignominy which she combated ; this was the doom 
which, by the masterly and dauntless efforts of her unassisted 
woman heart, she turned not only from herself, but back upon 
her murderers. 

From the departure of the commissioners, she had been con- 
vinced that she was hovering as it were on the confines of life 
and immortality. Happy and calm herself, she had labored to 
render calm and happy the little group of friends — for domes- 
tics, when faithful, are friends — who still preserved their alle- 
giance. She craved no more the wanderings in the green- 
wood ; she had even refused to join in her once- loved sports of 
field and forest, which, denied to her when she would have 
grasped the boon, were freely proffered now, as though her ene- 
mies, with a far-reaching malignity that would stretch its arm 
beyond the grave, had wished to reawaken in her bosom that 
love for things of this life which had sunk to sleep, and to 
sharpen the bitterness of death by the added tortures of regret. 
If such, indeed, were their intentions — and who shall presume 
to judge ? — their barbarity was frustrated ; and if they indeed 
envied their poor victim the miserable consolation of passing 
cheerfully and in peace from the sphere of her sorrows, we 
may be assured that the frustration of their wicked views was 
sufficient punishment to them w^hile here, and none can even 
dare to conjecture what will be their doom hereafter. 

This night had brought at length the balm to all her cares 
— the restless eagerness to be assured of that which was to 
come was over — the goal was reached, the gates were half- 
unclosed, and, to her enthusiastic and poetical imagination, the 
hymns and harpings of expectant seraphs seemed to pour in 
their soothing chimes, whispering of peace, pardon, and beati- 
tude for evermore between the parted portals. With a bigotry, 
which in these days of universal toleration it is equally difficult 
to conceive or to condemn sufficiently, it was denied to the de- 



LAST EARTHLY SLUMBER, 



383 



parting sinner — for who that is most perfect here is other than 
a sinner — to enjoy the consolations of a priest of her own per- 
suasion. A firm and conscientious, though not a bigoted cath- 
olic, it was a cruelty of the worst and most outrageous nature, 
to deny her that which she deemed of the highest importance 
to her eternal welfare, and which they could not deem preju- 
dicial, without being themselves victims of a superstition so 
slavish as to disprove their participation in a faith which boasts 
itself no less a religion of freedom than of truth. 

Steadily refusing the aid of the protestant divines, who har- 
assed her with an assiduity that spoke more of polemical pride 
than of Christian sincerity, she had performed her orisons with 
deep devotion, and had arisen from their performance assured 
of forgiveness, confident in her own repentance, and in the 
mercy of Him who alone is perfect ; in peace and charity even 
with her direst foes, and happy in the anticipation of the mor- 
row. She had sat down to her last earthly meal with an appe- 
tite unimpaired by the knowledge that it was to be her last ; 
she had conversed cheerfully, gayly, with her weeping friends ; 
she had drunk one cup of wine to their health and happiness, 
and, in token of her own gratitude, to each she had distributed 
some little pledge of her affectionate regard ; and then — amid 
the notes of dreadful preparation, the creaking of saws and the 
clang of hammers, busily converting the castle-hall into a place 
of slaughter, as it had been not long before a place of misnamed 
justice — she had sunk to sleep so calmly, and slumbered on 
with a countenance so moveless in its innocent repose, and 
with a bosom so regular in its healthful pulsations, that her ad- 
miring ladies began to look on her as one about to start upon 
a pleasant voyage to the harbor of all her wishes, rather than 
as one about to perish by a cruel and ignominious death on the 
scaffold. Hours flew over the lovely sleeper, and the eyes of 
her watchers waxed heavier, till they wept themselves to sleep ; 



384 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 



and one — an aged woman, who had watched her infancy and 
gloried in the promise of her youth — after her eyes were sealed 
in sleep, yet continued, by the heavy sobs which burst from 
the lips of the slumberer, to manifest the extent of that misery 
which abode in all its vividness within, the mind, although the 
body was wrapt, in that state which men have called oblivion. 

Such had been the state of things in Mary's chamber from the 
first close of evening to the dead hour of midnight ; but ere the 
east had begun again to redden with the returning glories of its 
luminary, sleep, which still sat leadlike on the eyelids of her 
attendants, forsook the hapless sovereign. Silently she arose, 
and, throwing a single garment carelessly about her person, 
passed from her sleeping-apartment into a little oratory adjoin- 
ing, without disturbing from her painful slumbers one of those 
faithful beings to whom the distinct consciousness of waking 
sorrow must have been yet more painfully acute. 

Here, as with a quick but regular step she traversed the nar- 
row turret, she viewed as it were in the space of a single hour 
the crowded events of a life which, unnaturally shortened as it 
was about to be, yet contained naught of remote and rare oc- 
currence, but in rapid and complete succession — those events 
which make an epoch and an era of every hour, and lengthen 
years of time into ages of the mind. 

Calmly, piously, without a shade of sorrow for the past or of 
solicitude for the future, save that mysterious and yet natural 
anxiety which must haunt every mind, however well prepared 
to endure its final separation from the body, as the hour of dis- 
solution approaches, did she expect the morning. This anxiety 
and this alone was blended with the various feelings which, 
coursed through the soul of Mary during this the last night of 
her existence. 

It was in such a frame of mind that Mary, in the solitude of 
that last earthly night, diverting her attention entirely from the 



a mother's love. 385 

terrible shock she was about to undergo on the morrow, thought 
upon her native land, still dear though still ungrateful, a prey 
to the fierce contentions of her own factious offspring — of her 
son, torn at the earliest dawn of his affections from the arms of 
a mother, nurtured among those who would teach him to eradi- 
cate every warmer recollection — to pluck forth, as if it were 
an offending eye, every lingering tenderness for that being, 
who, amid all her sins and ail her sorrows, had never ceased 
to love him with an entire and perfect love. There is, in truth, 
something more evidently divine, partaking more nearly of that 
which we believe to be the very essence of Divinity, in a moth- 
er's love, than in any other pang or passion — for every passion, 
how sweet soever it may be, has something of a pang mingled 
with it — in the human soul. All other love is liable to dimi- 
nution, to change, or to extinction ; all other love may be alien- 
ated by the neglect, chilled by the coldness, frozen to the core 
by the worthlessness, of the object once beloved. All other 
affections are influenced by a thousand trivial circumstances of 
time and place : absence may weaken their influence, time ob- 
scure their vividness, and, above all, custom may rob them of 
their value. But on the love of a mother — commencing as it 
does before the object of her solicitude possesses form or being ; 
springing from agony and sorrow ; ripening in anxiety and care, 
and reaping too often the bitter harvest of ingratitude — all inci- 
dental causes, all external influences, are powerless and vain. 
Time but excites her admiration, but increases her solicitude, 
but redoubles her affections. Absence but causes her to dwell 
with a more engrossing memory on him from whom her heart 
is never absent. Custom but hallows the sentiment to which 
nature has given birth. Neglect and coldness but cause her 
to strain every nerve to merit more and more the poor return 
of filial love — the solitary aim of her existence, if heartlessly 
denied to her. Nay, worthlessness itself but binds her more 

17 



386 THE CLOSING SCENE. 

closely to him whom the hard world has cast aside, to find a 
refuge in the only bosom which will not perceive his errors or 
credit his utter destitution. 

Thus it was with Mary ! She knew that the child of her 
affections regarded those affections as vile and worthless weeds ! 
She knew that he was selfish, vain, and heartless ! She knew 
that a single word from that child whom she still adored — if 
conveyed to her persecutor in the strong language of sincerity 
and earnestness — if borne, not by a fawning courtier, but by 
one of those high spirits which Scotland has found ever ready 
to her need — if enforced by threats of instant war — would 
have broken her fetters in a moment, and conveyed her from 
the dungeons of Fotheringay to the courts of Holyrood ! All 
this she knew, yet her heart would not know it ! And when 
all Europe rang with curses on the unnatural vacillation of that 
son; when every Scottish heart, whatever might be its policy 
or its party, despised his abject cringing ; while Elizabeth her- 
self, while she flattered his vanity, and affected to honor and 
esteem his virtue, scoffed in her royal privacy at the tool she 
designed to use in public — Mary alone, Mary, the only sufferer 
and victim of his baseness, still clung to the idea of his worth, 
still adored the child who was driving her out, as the scape- 
goat of the Jews, to expiate the sins of himself and his people 
by her own destruction ! But it was not on James alone that 
her wayward memory was fixed. At a time when any soul 
less dauntless, any spirit less exalted, would have failed be- 
neath its load of sorrows, Mary had a fond regret, a tear of 
sorrow, a sigh of sincere gratitude, for every gallant life that 
had devoted itself to ward from her that fate which their united 
loyalty had availed only to defer, not to avert. Chastelar passed 
before her, with his tones of sweetest melancholy, and that un- 
utterable love, which made him invoke blessings on her who 
had doomed him to the block : and Darnley, as he had seemed 



THE SIGNAL-BELL. 387 

in the few short hours when he had been, when he had de- 
served to be, the idol of her heart : and Bothwell, the eloquent, 
the glorious, but guilty Bothwell, her ruin and her betrayer : 
and Douglas, the noble, hapless Douglas, he who had riven the 
bolts of Loch Leven, and sent her forth to a short freedom and 
worse captivity : Huntley, and Hamilton, and Seyton, and Kirk- 
aldy, the most formidable of her foes until he became the firm- 
est of her friends — all passed in sad review before the eyes of 
her entranced imagination. 

Thus it was that the last queen of Scotland passed the latest 
night of her existence. With no consciousness of time, with 
no care for the present, no apprehension for the future, she had 
paced the narrow floor of her apartment during the still hours 
of midnight. Unperceived by her had the stars paled, then 
vanished from the brightening firmament ; unseen had the first 
dappling of the east gone into the clear, cold light of a wintry 
morning ; unheeded had the castle clock sent forth its giant 
echoes hour after hour, to be heard by every watcher over 
leagues of field and forest. Another sound rose heavily, and 
she was at once collected — time, place, and circumstances, 
flashed fully on her mind — she was prepared to meet them : it 
was the roar of the morning culverin ; and scarcely had its 
deafening voice passed over, before a single bell, hoarse, slow, 
and so^nm, pealed minute after minute, the signal of her ap- 
proaching dissolution. 

Calmly, as if she were about to prepare for some gay festi- 
val, she turned to the apartment where her ladies, overdone by 
wo and watching, yet slumbered, forgetful of the dread occa- 
sion. 

"Arise," she said, in sweet, low tones ; " arise, my girls, and 
do your last of duties for the mistress ye have served so well ! 
Nay, start not up so wildly, nor blush that ye have slept while 
we were watching. Dear girls, the time has come — the time 



388 THE CLOSING SCENE. 

for which my soul so long has thirsted. Array me, then, as to 
a banquet, a glorious banquet of immortality ! See," she con- 
tinued, scattering her long locks over her shoulders — "see, 
they were bright of yore as the last sunbeam of a summer day, 
yet I am prouder of them now, with their long streaks of un- 
timely snow — for they now tell a tale of sorrows, borne as it 
becomes a queen to bear them. Braid them with all your skill, 
and place yon pearls around my velvet head-gear. We will go 
forth to die, clad as a bride ; and now methinks the queen of 
France and Scotland owns but a single robe of fair device. 
Bring forth our royal train and broidered farthingale : it fits us 
not to die with our limbs clad in the garb of mourning, when 
Heaven knows that our heart is clothed in gladness !" 

Tearless, while all around were drowned in lamentations, 
she strove to cheer them to the performance of this last sad 
office — not with the commonplace assurances, the miserable 
resources of earthly consolation, much less with aught of heart- 
less levity, or of that unfeeling parade which has so often 
adorned the scaffold with a jest, and concealed the anxiety of 
a heart ill at ease beneath the semblance of ill-timed merriment 
— but by suffering them to read her inmost soul ; by showing 
them the true position of her existence ; by pointing out to 
them the actual hardships of the body, and the yet deeper hu- 
miliations of the soul, from which the door of her escape was 
even now unclosing. 

Scarcely had she completed her attire, and tasted of the con- 
secrated wafer — long ago procured from the holy Pius, and 
preserved for this extremity — when the tread of many feet 
without, and a slight clash of weapons at the door of the ante- 
chamber, announced that the hour had arrived. 

Once and again, ere she gave the signal to unclose the door, 
she embraced each one of her attendants. " Dear, faithful 
friends, adieu, adieu," she said, " for ever ; and now remember, 



THE PARTING HOUR. 389 

remember the last words of Mary. Weep not for me, and, if 
ye love me, shake not my steadfastness, which, thanks to Him 
who is the Father and the Friend of the afflicted, the fear of 
death can not shake, by useless fear or lamentation. We would 
die as a martyr cheerfully, as a queen nobly! Fare ye well, 
and remember !" With an air of royal dignity she seated her- 
self, and, with her maidens standing around her chair, she bore 
the mien of a high sovereign awaiting the arrival of some proud 
legation, rather than that of a captive awaiting a summons to 
the block. "And now," she said, as she arranged her drape- 
ries with dignified serenity, " admit their envoy." 

The doors were instantly thrown open as she spoke, the 
sheriff uttered his ordinary summons, and without a shudder 
she rose. " Lead on," she said ; " we follow thee more joy- 
ously than thou, methinks, canst marshal us. Sir Amias Pau- 
let, lend us thine arm ; it fits us not that we proceed, even to 
the death, without some show of courtesy. Maidens, bear up 
our train ; and now, sir, we are ready." 

But a heavier trial than the axe awaited the unhappy sover- 
eign ; for as she set her foot on the first step of the stairs, 
Melville, her faithful steward, flung himself at her feet, with 
almost girlish wailings. Friendly and familiarly she raised 
him from the ground. " Nay, sorrow not for me," she said, 
" true friend. Subject for sorrow there is none, unless thou 
grievest that Mary is set free — that for the captive's weeds she 
shall put on a robe of immortality, and, for a crown of earthly 
misery, the glory of beatitude." 

" Alas ! alas ! God grant that I may die, rather than look 
upon this damned deed." 

" Nay, live, good Melville, for my sake live ; commend me 
to my son, and say to him, Mary's last thoughts on earth were 
given to France and Scotland, her last but these to him : say, 
that she died unshaken in her faith to God, unswerving in her 



390 THE CLOSING SCENE. 

courage, confident in her reward. Farewell, true servant, take 
from the lips of Mary the last kiss that mortal e'er shall take of 
them, and fare thee well for ever." 

At this moment the earl of Kent stepped forward, and 
roughly bade her dismiss her women also, " for the present 
matter tasked other ministers than such as these." For a 
moment she condescended to plead that they might be suffered 
to attend her to the last ; but when she was again refused, her 
ancient spirit flashed out in every tone, as she cried, trumpet- 
like and clear, " Proud lord, beware ! I too am cousin to your 
queen — I too am sprung from the high-blood of England's roy- 
alty — I too am an anointed queen. I say thou shalt obey, and 
these shall follow their mistress to the death, or with foul vio- 
lence shall they force me thither. Beware ! beware, I say, 
how thou shalt-answer doing me this dishonor !" 

Her words prevailed. Without a shudder she descended, 
entered the fatal hall, looked with an air of smiling condescen- 
sion, almost of pity, on the spectators crowded almost to suffo- 
cation, and, mounting the scaffold, stood in proud and abstract- 
ed unconcern, while, in the measured sounds of a proclama- 
tion, the warrant for her death was read beside her elbow. 

The bishop of Peterborough then drew nigh, and, in a loud 
voice and inflated style, harassed her ears with an oration, 
which, whatever might have been its merits, was at that time 
but a barbarous and useless outrage. 

" Trouble not yourself," she broke in at length, disgusted 
with his intemperate eloquence, " trouble not yourself any more 
about this matter, for I was born in this religion, I have lived 
in this religion, and in this religion I am resolved to die." Turn- 
ing suddenly aside, as if determined to hear no further, she 
knelt apart, fervently prayed, and repeatedly kissed the sculp- 
tured image which she bore of Him who died to save. As 
she arose from her orisons, the earl of Kent., her constant and 



THE EXECUTION. 391 

unrelenting persecutor, with, heartless cruelty burst into loud 
revilings against " that popish trumpery" which she adored. 
" Suffer me now," she said, gazing on him with an expression 
of beautiful resignation, that might have disarmed the malice of 
a fiend, " suffer me now to depart in peace. I have come 
hither, not to dispute on points of doctrine, but to die." 

Without another word she began to disrobe herself; but 
once, as her maidens hung weeping about her person, she 
laid her finger on her lips, and repeated emphatically the 
word " Remember." And once again, as the executioner 
would have lent his aid to remove her upper garments, " Good 
friend," she said, with a smile of ineffable sweetness, " we will 
dispense with thine assistance. The queen of Scotland is not 
wont to be disrobed before so many eyes, nor yet by varlets 
such as thou." 

All now was ready. The lovely neck was bared. The 
wretch who was to perform the deed of blood stood grasping 
the fatal axe, and the fierce earl of Kent beat the ground with 
his heel in savage eagerness. Without a sigh she knelt ; 
without a sign of trepidation, a quicker heave of her bosom, or 
a brighter flush on her brow, she laid down her innocent head, 
and without a struggle, or convulsion of her limbs, as the axe 
flashed, and the life-blood spouted, did her spirit pass away. 

A general burst of lamentation broke the silence ; but amidst 
that burst the heavy stride of Kent was heard, as he sprang 
upon the scaffold, and raised the ghastly visage, the eyes yet 
twinkling, and the lips quivering in the death-struggle. A sin- 
gle voice, that of the zealot bishop, cried aloud, " Thus perish 
all the foes of Queen Elizabeth." But ere the response had 
passed the lips of Kent, a shriller cry rang through the hall — 
the sharp yell of a small greyhound, the fond companion of the 
queen's captivity. Bursting from the attendants, who vainly 
strove to hold her back, with a short, sharp cry she dashed 



392 THE CLOSING SCENE. 

full at the throat of the astonished earl ; but ere he could move 
a limb the danger, if danger there were, was passed. The 
spirit was too mighty for the little frame. The energies of the 
faithful animal were exhausted, its heart broken, in that death- 
spring. It struck the headless body of its mistress as it fell, 
and in an agony of tenderness, died licking the hand that had 
fed and cherished it so long. Wonderful, that when all men 
had deserted her, a brute should be found so constant in its 
pure allegiance ! And yet more wonderful, that the same blow 
should have completed the destiny of the two rival sovereigns! 
and yet so it was ! The same axe gave the death-blow to the 
body of the Scottish, and to the fame of the English queen ! 
The same stroke completed the sorrows of Mary, and the in- 
famy of Elizabeth. 



ELIZABETH'S REMORSE. 



"Guilty! guilty! 

I shall despair! There is no creature loves me: 

And, if I die, no soul will pity me ! 

Nay, wherefore should they? since I myself 

Find in myself no mercy to myself!" — King Richard III. 

The twelfth hour of the night had already been announced 
from half the steeples of England's metropolis, and the echoes 
of its last stroke lingered in mournful cadences among the 
vaulted aisles of Westminster. It was not then, as now, the 
season of festivity, the high-tides of the banquet and the ball, 
that witching time of night. No din of carriages or glare of 
torches disturbed the sober silence of the streets, illuminated 
only by the waning light of an uncertain moon ; no music 
streamed upon the night-wind from the latticed casements of 
the great, who were contented, in the days of their lion-queen, 
to portion out their hours for toil or merriment, for action or 
repose, according to the ministration of those great lights which 
rule the heavens with an indifferent and impartial sway, and 
register their brief career of moments to the peer as to the peas- 
ant by one unvarying standard. 

A solitary lamp burned dim and cheerlessly before a low- 
browed portal in St. Stephen's ; and a solitary warder, in the 
rich garb still preserved by the yeomen of the guard, walked to 

17* 



394 Elizabeth's remorse. 

and fro with almost noiseless steps — his corslet and the broad 
head of his shouldered partisan flashing momentarily out from 
the shadow of the arch, as he passed and repassed beneath the 
light which indicated the royal residence — distinguished by no 
prouder decorations — of her before whose wrath the mightiest 
of Europe's sovereigns shuddered. A pile of the clumsy fire- 
arms then in use, stacked beneath the eye of the sentinel, and 
the dark outlines of several bulky figures outstretched in slum- 
ber upon the pavement, seemed to prove that some occurrences 
of late had called for more than common vigilance in the guard- 
ing of the place. 

The prolonged cry of the watcher, telling at each successive 
hour that all was well, had scarcely passed his lips, before the 
distant tramp of a horse, and the challenge of a sentry from the 
bridge, came heavily up the wind. For a moment the yeoman 
listened with all his senses ; then, as it became evident that the 
rider was approaching, he stirred the nearest sleeper with the 
butt of his heavy halbert. " Up, Gilbert ! up, man, and to your 
tools, ere they be wanted. What though the earl's proud head 
lie low? — he hath friends and fautors enough in the city, I 
trow, to raise a coil whene'er it lists them !" The slumbers of 
the yeomen were exchanged on the instant for the guarded 
bustle of preparations ; and, before the horseman, whose ap- 
proach had caused so much excitement, drew bridle at the 
palace-gate, a dozen bright sparks glimmering under the dark 
portal, like glow-worms beneath .some bushy coppice, an- 
nounced the readiness of as many levelled matchlocks. 

" Stand, ho ! the word — " 

"A post to her grace of England !" was the irregular reply, 
as the rider, hastily throwing himself from off his jaded hack- 
ney, advanced toward the yeoman. 

" Stand there, I say ! — no nearer, on your life ! Shoot, Gil- 
bert, shoot, an' he stir but a hand-breadth !" 



THE MIDNIGHT POST. 395 

" Tush ! friend, delay me not," replied the intruder, halting, 
however, as he was required to do ; "my haste is urgent, and 
that which I bear with me passeth ceremony — a letter to the 
queen ! On your heads be it, if I meet impediment ! See that 
ye pass it to her grace forthwith." 

"A letter? ha! There may be some device in this; yet 
pass it hitherward " A broad parchment, secured by a fold of 
floss silk, with its deeply-sealed wax attached, was placed in 
his hand. A light was obtained from the hatch of a caliver, 
and the superscription, evidently too important for delay, hur- 
ried the guards to action. "The earl of Nottingham" — it ran 
— " to his most high and sovereign lady, Elizabeth of England. 
For life ! for life ! for life ! — Ride and run — haste, haste, post- 
haste, till this be delivered !" 

After a moment's conference among the warders, the bearer 
was directed to advance ; a yeoman led the panting horse away 
to the royal meuf ; and the corporal of the guard, striking the 
wicket with his dagger-hilt, shortly obtained a hearing and ad- 
mission from the gentleman-pensioner on duty. Within the 
palace no result was immediately perceived from the occur- 
rence which had caused so much bustle outside the gates ; the 
soldiers on duty conversed for a while in stifled whispers, then 
relapsed into their customary silence ; the night wore on with- 
out further interruption to their watch, and ere they were re- 
lieved they had well nigh forgotten the messenger's arrival. 

Not so, however, was the letter received by the inmates of 
the royal residence. Ushers and pages were awakened, lights 
glanced, and hurried steps and whispering voices echoed through 
the corridors. The chamberlain, so great was considered the 
urgency of the matter, was summoned from his pillow ; and he 
with no small trepidation proceeded at once to the apartment 
of Elizabeth. His hesitating tap at the door of the ante-cham- 
ber — occupied by the ladies whose duty it was to watch the 



396 Elizabeth's remorse. 

person of their imperious mistress by night — failed indeed to 
excite the attention of the sleeping maidens, but caught at once 
the ear of the extraordinary woman whom they served. 

" Without there !" she cried, in a clear, unbroken tone, al- 
though full sixty winters had passed over her head. 

" Hunsdon, so please your grace, with a despatch of import 
from the earl of Nottingham." 

" God's death ! ye lazy wenches ! hear ye not the man with- 
out, that I must rive my throat with clamoring ? Up, hussies, 
up — or, by the soul of my father, ye shall sleep for ever!" 
The frightened girls sprang from their couches at the raised 
voice of their angry queen, like a covey of partridges at the 
yelp of the springer, and for a moment all was confusion. 

" What now, ye fools !" she cried again, in harsh and ex- 
cited accents, that reached the ears of the old earl without — 
" hear ye not that my chamberlain awaits an audience ? Fling 
yonder robe of velvet o'er our person, and rid us of this night- 
gear — so ! — the mirror now ! my ruff and curch ! and now — 
admit him !" 

" Admit him ! an' it list your grace, it were scarce seemly in 
ladies to appear thus disarrayed — " 

" Heard ye, or heard ye not 1 I say, admit him ! Think ye 
old Hunsdon cares to look upon such trumpery as ye, or must 
I wait upon my wenches' pleasure ? God's head, but ye grow 
malapert !" 

The old queen's voice had not yet ceased, before the door 
was opened ; and although the ladies had taken the precaution 
of extinguishing the light, and seeking such concealment as the 
angles of the chamber afforded, the sturdy old earl — who, not- 
withstanding the queen's assertion, had as quick an eye for 
beauty as many a younger gallant — could easily discover that 
the modesty which had demurred to the admission of a man 
was not by any means uncalled for or even squeamish. Had 



THE ROYAL CHAMBER. 397 

he been, however, much more inclined to linger by the way 
than his old-fashioned courtesy permitted, he must have been 
a bold man to delay ; for twice, ere he could cross the floor to 
her chamber, did his name reach his ears in the impatient ac- 
cents of Elizabeth: " Hunsdon ! I say — Hunsdon ! 's death! 
art thou crippled, man V 

There was little of the neatness or taste of modern days dis- 
played in the decorations of the royal chamber. Tapestries 
there were, and velvet hangings, carpets from Turkey, and 
huge mirrors of Venetian steel ; but a plentiful lack of linen, 
and of those thousand nameless comforts, which a peasant's 
dame would miss to-day, uncared for in those rude times by 
princesses. Huge waxen torches flared in the wind, which 
found its way through the ill-constructed lattice ; and a greater 
proportion of the smoke, from the logs smouldering in the jams 
of a chimney wider than that of a modern kitchen, reeked up- 
ward to the blackened rafters of the unceiled roof. 

Rigid and haughty, in the midst of this strange medley of 
negligence and splendor, sat the dreaded monarch, approached 
by none even of her most favored ministers save with fear and 
trembling. Her person, tall and slender from her earliest years, 
and now emaciated to almost superhuman leanness by the work- 
ings of her own restless spirit, even more than by her years, 
presented an aspect terrible, yet magnificent withal. It seemed 
as though the dauntless firmness of a more than masculine soul 
had won the power to support and animate a frame which it 
had rescued from the grave ; it seemed as though the years 
which had blighted had failed in their efforts to destroy; it 
seemed as though that faded tenement of clay might yet endure, 
like the blasted oak, for countless years, although the summer 
foliage, which rendered it so beautiful of yore, had long since 
been scattered by the wild autumnal hurricane, or seared by 
the nipping frosts of winter. Her eye alone, in the general 



398 Elizabeth's remorse. 

decay of her person, retained its wonted brilliancy, shining 
forth from her pale and withered features with a lustre so re- 
markable as to appear almost supernatural. 

"So! give us the letter — there! Pause not for thy knee, 
man ; give us the letter !" — and tearing the frail band by which 
it was secured asunder, she was in a moment entirely engrossed, 
as it would seem, in its contents. Her countenance waxed 
paler and paler as she read ; and the shadows of an autumn 
morning flit not more change fully across the landscape, as cloud 
after cloud is driven over the sun's disk, than did the varying 
expressions of anxiety, doubt, and sorrow, chase one another 
from the speaking lineaments of Elizabeth. 

" Ha !" she exclaimed, after a long pause, " this must be 
looked to. See that our barge be manned forthwith, and tarry 
not for aught of state or ceremony. Thyself will go with us, 
and stop not thou to don thy newest-fashioned doublet : this is 
no matter that brooks ruffling! — 'Sdeath, man! 'tis life or 
death ! And now begone, sir ! we lack our tirewoman's ser- 
vice !" 

An hour had not elapsed before a barge — easily distinguished 
as one belonging to the royal household, by its decorations, and 
the garb of the rowers — shot through a side arch of Westminster 
bridge, and passed rapidly, under sail and oar, down the swift 
current of the river, now almost at ebb tide. It was not, how- 
ever, the barge of state, in which the progresses of the sover- 
eign were usually made ; nor was it followed by the long train 
of vessels, freighted with ladies of the court, guards, and musi- 
cians, which were w T ont to follow in its wake. In the stern- 
sheets sat two persons : a man advanced in years, and remark- 
able for an air of nobility, which could not be disguised even 
by the thick boat-cloak he had wrapped about him, as much 
perhaps to afford protection against the eyes of the inquisitive 
as against the dense mists of the Thames ; and a lady, whose 



ROYALTY IN DISGUISE. 



399 



tall person was folded in wrappings so voluminous as to defy 
the closest scrutiny. At a short distance in the rear, another 
boat came sweeping along, in the crew and passengers of which 
it would have required a penetrating glance to discover a dozen 
or two of the yeomen of the guard, in their undress liveries of 
gray and black, without either badge or cognizance, and their 
carbines concealed beneath a pile of cloaks. 

It was Elizabeth herself, who, in compliance with the mys- 
terious despatch she had so lately received, was braving the 
cold damps of the river at an hour so unusual, and in a guise 
so far short of her accustomed state. The moon had already 
set, and the stars were feebly twinkling through the haze that 
rose in massive volumes from the steaming surface of the water, 
but no symptoms of approaching day were as yet visible in the 
east; the buildings on the shore were entirely shrouded from 
view by the fog, and the few lighters and smaller craft, moored* 
here and there between the bridges, could scarcely be discov- 
ered in time to suffer the barge to be sheered clear of their 
moorings. It was perhaps on account of these obstacles that 
their progress was less rapid than might reasonably have been 
expected from the rate at which they cut the water. 

Of the six stately piles which may now be seen spanning 
the noble stream, but two were standing at the period of which 
we write ; and several long reaches were to be passed before 
the fantastic mass of London bridge, with its dwelling-houses 
and stalls for merchandise towering above the irregular thor- 
oughfares of the city, loomed darkly up against the horizon. 
Scarcely had they threaded its narrow and cavern-like arches, 
before a pale and sickly light, of a faint yellow hue, more re- 
sembling the glare of torches than the blessed radiance of the 
sun, gilded the decreasing fog-wreaths, and glanced upon the 
level water. The sun had risen, and for a time hung blinking 
on the misty horizon, and shorn of half his beams, till a fresh 



400 Elizabeth's remorse. 

breeze from the westward brushed the vapors aloft, and hurried 
them seaward with a velocity which shortly left the scenery to 
be viewed in unobscured beauty. Just as this change was 
wrought upon the face of nature, the royal barge was darting, 
with a speed that increased every instant, before the esplanade 
and frowning artillery of the Tower ; the short waves were 
squabbling and splashing beneath the dark jaws and lowered 
portcullis of the " Traitor's Gate," that fatal passage through 
which so many of the best and bravest of England's nobility 
had entered, never to return ! 

Brief as was the moment of their transit in front of that sad 
portal, Hunsdon had yet time to mark the terrible expression 
of misery, almost of despair, that gleamed across the features 
of the queen. She spoke not, but she wrung her hands with 
a sigh, that uttered volumes of repentance and regret, too late 
to be availing ; and the stern old chamberlain, who felt his heart 
yearn at the sorrows of a mistress whom he loved no less than 
he revered, knew that the mute gesture and the painful sigh 
were extorted from that masculine bosom only by the extremity 
of anguish. She had not looked upon that " den of drunkards 
with the blood of princes" since it had been glutted with its 
last and noblest victim. Essex, the princely, the valiant, the 
generous, and the noble Essex — ^the favorite of the people, the 
admired of men, the idol, the cherished idol of Elizabeth — had 
gone, a few short moons before, through that abhorred gateway 
— had gone to die — had died by her unwilling mandate ! Bit- 
ter and long had been the struggle between her wounded pride 
and her sincere affection ; between her love for the man and 
her wrath against the rebel : thrice had she signed the fatal 
warrant, and as often consigned it to the flames ; and when at 
length her indignation prevailed, and she affixed her name to 
the fell scroll — which, once executed, she never smiled again 
— that indignation was excited, not so much by the violence 



A FLOATING CITY. 401 

of his proceedings against her crown, as by his obstinate delay- 
in claiming pity and pardon from an offended but indulgent 
mistress. 

Onwartf, onward they went, the light boat dancing over the 
waves that added to its speed, the canvass fluttering merrily, 
and the swell which their own velocity excited laughing in 
their wake. It was a time and a scene to enliven every bosom, 
to make every English heart bound happily and proudly. Ves- 
sels-of-war, and traders, galliot, and caravel, and bark, and ship, 
lay moored in the centre of the pool and along the wharves, the 
thousand dwellings of a floating city. All this Elizabeth her- 
self had done : the commerce of England was the fruit of her 
fostering ; the power of her courage and sagacity ; the mighty 
navy of her creation. 

They passed below the dark broadsides and massive arma- 
ments of forty ships-of-war, some of the unwonted bulk of a 
thousand tons, with the victorious flags of Howard, Hawkins, 
Frobisher, and Drake, streaming from mast and yard ; but not 
a smile chased the dull expression of fixed grief from the brow 
of her who had " marred the Armada's pride ;" nor did the 
slightest symptom on board her three most chosen vessels — 
the Speedwell, the Tryeright, or the Blak- Galley, the very 
models of the world for naval architecture — show that the 
queen and mistress of them all was gliding in such humble 
trim below their victorious batteries. 

The limits of the city were already left far behind ; green 
meadows and noble trees now filled the place of the crowded 
haunts of wealth and industry, while here and there a lordly 
dwelling, with its trim avenues, and terraced gardens sloping 
to the water's edge, adorned the prospect. The turrets of Not- 
tingham house, the suburban palace of that powerful peer, were 
soon in view ; when a pageant swept along the river, stemming 
the ebb tide with a proud and stately motion — a pageant which, 



402 Elizabeth's remorse. 

at any other period, would have been calculated, above all 
things else, to wake the lion-like exultation of the queen, though 
now it was passed in silence, and unheeded. The rover Cav- 
endish* — who, a few years before, a gentleman of wealth and 
worship, had dissipated his paternal fortunes, and in the south- 
ern seas and on the Spanish main had become a famous free- 
booter — was entering the river with his prizes in goodly tri- 
umph. The flag-ship, a caravel of a hundred and twenty tons 
only, led the van, close-hauled and laden almost gunwale-deep 
with the precious spoils of Spain. Her distended topsail flashed 
in the sunlight like a royal banner, a single sheet of the richest 
cloth of gold ; her courses were of crimson damask, her mar- 
iners clad in garments of the finest silk ; banners flaunted from 
every part of the rigging ; and over all the " meteor flag of Eng- 
land/' the red cross of St. George, streamed rearward, as if 
pointing to the long train of prizes which followed. Nineteen 
vessels, of every size and description then in use — carracks 
of the western Indies, galleons of Castile and Leon, with the 
flag of Spain, so late the mistress of the sea, disgracefully re- 
versed beneath the captor's ensign — sailed on in long and even 
array ; while in the rear of all, the remainder of the predatory 
squadron, two little sea-wasps of forty and sixty tons burden, 
presented themselves in proud contrast to their bulky prizes, 
the hardy crews filling the air with clamors, and the light can- 
non booming in feeble but proud exultation. Time was when 
such a sight had roused her enthusiastic spirit almost to frenzy, 
but now that" spirit was occupied, engrossed by cares peculiarly 
its own. The coxswain of the royal barge, his eye kindling 
with patriotic pride, and presuming a little on his long and 

* This incident, which is strictly historical, even to the smallest details, did in 
fact occur several years earlier; as the death of Elizabeth did not take place un- 
til the year 1603, whereas the triumphant return of Thomas Cavendish is related 
by Hume as having happened A.. D. 1587. It is hoped that the anachronism will 
be pardoned, in behalf of the picture of the times afforded by its introduction. 



THE COUNTESS OF NOTTINGHAM. 403 

faithful services, put up the helm, as if about to run alongside 
of the leading galley ; but a cold frown and a forward wafture 
of the hand repelled his ardor ; and the men their oars bending 
to the work, the barge was at her moorings ere many minutes 
had elapsed, by the water-gate of Nottingham-house — and the 
queen made her way, unannounced and almost unattended, to 
the chamber of the aged countess. 

The sick woman had been for weeks wasting away beneath 
a slow and painful malady ; her strength had failed her, and for 
days her end had been almost hourly expected. Still, with 
that strange and unnatural tenacity through which the dying 
sometimes cling to earth, even after every rational hope of a 
day's prolonged existence has been extinguished — she had 
hovered as it were on the confines of life and death, the vital 
flame flickering like that of a lamp whose aliment has long 
since been exhausted, fitfully playing about the wick which 
can no longer support it. Her reason, which had been par- 
tially obscured during the latter period of her malady, had been 
restored to its full vigor on the preceding evening ; but the only 
fruit of its restoration was the utmost anguish of mental suffer- 
ing and conscientious remorse. From the moment when the 
messenger, whose arrival we have already witnessed, had been 
despatched on his nocturnal mission, she had passed the time 
in fearful struggles with the last foe, wrestling as it were bodily 
with the dark angel ; now pleading with the Almighty, and ad- 
juring him by her sufferings and by her very sins, to spare her 
yet a little while ; now shrieking on the name of Elizabeth, 
and calling her, as she valued her soul's salvation, to make no 
long tarrying. In the opinion of the leeches who watched 
around her pillow, and of the terrified preacher who communed 
with his own heart and was still, her life was kept up only by 
this fierce and feverish excitement. 

At a glance she recognised the queen, before another eye 



404 Elizabeth's remorse. 

had marked her entrance. " Ha !" she groaned, in deep, sep- 
ulchral tones, " she is come, before whose coming my guilty- 
soul had not the power to pass away ! She is come to witness 
the damnation of an immortal spirit ! to hear a tale of sin and 
sorrow that has no parallel ! Hear my words, O queen ! hear 
my words now, and laugh — laugh if you can ; for, by Him 
who made us both, and is now dealing with me according to 
my merits, never shall you laugh again ! Hereafter you shall 
groan, and weep, and tremble, and curse yourself, as I do ! 
Laugh, I say, Elizabeth of England — laugh now, or never 
laugh again !" 

For a moment the spirit of the queen, manly and strong as it 
was, beyond perhaps all precedent, was fairly overawed and 
cowed by the fierce intensity of the dying woman's manner. 
Not long, however, could that proud soul quail to any created 
thing. 

" 'Fore God, woman," she cried, " thou art bewitched, or 
desperately wicked ! What, in the fiend's name, mean ye ?" 

" In the fiend's name truly, for he alone inspired me ! Look 
here — and then pardon me, Elizabeth ; in God's name, pardon 
me!" 

As she spoke, she held aloft, in her thin and bird-like fingers, 
a massive ring of gold, from which a sapphire of rare price 
gleamed brilliantly, casting a bright, dancing spark of blue 
reflection upon her hollow, ghastly features. " Know you," she 
screamed, " this token ?" 

" Where got you it, woman ? Speak, I say, speak, or I curse 
you! — where got you that same token?" The proud queen 
shook and shuddered as she spoke, like one in an ague-fit. 

" Essex !" sighed the dying countess, through her set teeth — 
" the murthered Essex !" 

" Murthered ? God's death, thou liest ! He was a traitor — 
done to death ! God ! O God ! I know not what I say !" 



TOO LATE ! 405 

and a big tear-drop — the first in many a year, the first perhaps 
that ever had bedewed that iron cheek — slid slowly down the 
face of Elizabeth, and fell heavily on the brow of the glaring 
sufferer, who still held the ring aloft, in hands clasped close in 
attitude of supplication. " Speak," she said again, in milder 
accents, "speak, Nottingham: what of — of Essex?" 

" That ring he gave to me, to bear it to thy footstool, and to 
pray a gracious mistress's favor to an erring but a grateful ser- 
vant — " 

"And thou, woman — thou!" absolutely shrieked the queen. 

" Gave it not to thee — that Essex might die, not live !" was 
the steady reply. " Pardon me before I die ; pardon me, as 
God shall pardon thee ! — " 

" God shall not pardon me, woman! — neither do I pardon 
thee ! He, an' he will, may pardon thee ; but that will I do 
never! never! — by the life of the Eternal, never!" — and, in 
the overpowering fury and agitation of the moment, she seized 
the dying sinner with an iron gripe, and shook her in the bed, 
till the ponderous fabric creaked and quivered. Not another 
word, not another sob passed the lips of the old countess : her 
frame was shaken by a mightier hand than that of the indig- 
nant queen ; a deep, harsh rattle came from her chest ; she 
raised one skinny arm aloft, and after the jaw had dropped, and 
the glaring eyeball fixed, that wretched limb stood erect, ap- 
pealing as it were from a mortal to an immortal Judge ! 

The paroxysm was over. Speechless, and all but motion- 
less, the miserable queen was borne by her attendants to. the 
barge ; the tide had shifted, and was still in their favor, though 
their course was altered. On their return, they again passed 
the triumphant fleet of Cavendish, bearing the mightiest sover- 
eign of the world, the envied of all the earth — a wretched, 
feeble, heart-broken woman, grovelling like a crushed worm 
beneath the bitterest of human pangs, the agonies of self-merited 



406 Elizabeth's remorse. 

misery ! A few hours found her outstretched upon the floor of 
her chamber, giving away to anguish uncontrolled and uncon- 
trollable. Refusing the earnest prayers of her women, and of 
her physicians, to suffer herself to be disrobed, and to recline 
upon her bed ; feeding on tears and groans alone ; uttering no 
sound but the name of Essex, in one plaintive and oft-repeated 
cry ; mocking at all consolation ; acknowledging no comforter 
except despair — ten long days and nights she lingered thus, in 
pangs a thousand times more intolerable than those which she 
had inflicted on her Scottish rival : and when, at length, the 
council of the state assembled, in her last moments, around the 
death-bed of a sovereign truly and not metaphorically lying in 
dust and ashes — she named to them, as her successor in the 
kingdom, the son of that same rival. Who shall say that the 
death of Mary Stuart went unavenged ? 



THE MOORISH FATHER. 

A TALE OF MALAGA. 



It was the morning of the day succeeding that which had 
beheld the terrible defeat, among the savage glens and moun- 
tain fastnesses of Axarquia, of that magnificent array of cava- 
liers which, not a week before, had pranced forth from the 
walls of Antiquera, superbly mounted on Andalusian steeds, 
fiery, and fleet, and fearless, with helm and shield and corslet 
engrailed with arabesques of gold, surcoats of velvet and rich 
broidery, plumes of the desert bird, and all in short that can 
add pomp and circumstance to the dread game of war. The 
strife was over in the mountain valleys ; the lonely hollows on 
the bare hill-side, the stony channels of the torrent, the tangled 
thicket, and the bleak barren summit, were cumbered with the 
carcasses of Spain's most noble cavaliers. War-steeds beside 
their riders, knights of the proudest lineage among their low- 
liest vassals, lay cold and grim and ghastly, each where the 
shaft, the stone, the assagay, had stretched beneath him, be- 
neath the garish lustre of the broad southern sun. The Moor- 
ish foe had vanished from the field, which he had won almost 
without a struggle — the plunderer of the dead plied his hateful 
trade even to satiety, and, gorged with booty that might well 



408 THE MOORISH FATHER. 

satiate the wildest avarice, had left the field of slaughter to the 
possession of his brute comrades, the wolf, the raven, and the 
eagle. 

It was now morning, and the broad sun, high already, was 
pouring down a flood of light over the giant crags, the deep pre- 
cipitous defiles, and all the stern though glorious features which 
mark the mountain scenery of Malaga ; and far beyond over 
the broad, luxuriant Vega, watered by its ten thousand streams 
of crystal, waving with olive-groves, and vineyards, and dark 
woodlands ; and farther yet over the laughing waters of the 
bright Mediterranean. But one, who having found conceal- 
ment during that night of wo and slaughter in some dark cave, 
or gully so sequestered that it had escaped the keen eyes of 
the Moorish mountaineers, now plied his bloody spurs almost 
in vain, so weary and so faint was the beautiful bay steed which 
bore him. He paused not to look upon the wonders of his 
road, tarried not to observe the play of light and shadow over 
that glorious plain, although by nature he was fitted to admire 
and to love all that she had framed of wild, of beautiful, or 
of romantic. Nay more, he scarcely turned his eye to gaze 
upon the miserable relics of some beloved comrade, who had 
so often revelled gayly, and in that last awful carnage had 
striven fearlessly and well, even when all was lost, beside him. 
He was a tall dark-featured youth, with a profusion of black 
hair clustered in short close curls about a high pale forehead ; 
an eye that glanced like fire at every touch of passion, yet 
melted at the slightest claim upon his pity ; an aquiline, thin 
nose, and mouth well cut, but compressed and closely set, com- 
pleted the detail of his eminently handsome features. But the 
dark curls — for he had been en the preceding day unhelmed 
and slightly wounded — were clotted with stiff gore, matted 
with dust, and bleached by the hot sun under which he had 
for hours fought bareheaded. The keen, quick eye was dull 



THE SPANISH KNIGHT. 409 

and glazed, the haughty lineaments clouded with shame, anx- 
iety, and grief, and the chiselled lips pale and cold as ashes. 
His armor, which had been splendid in the extreme, richly em- 
bossed and sculptured, was all defaced with dust and gore, 
broken and dinted, and in many places riven quite asunder. 
The surcoat which he had donned a few short days before, of 
azure damask, charged with the bearings of his proud ancestral 
race, fluttered in rags upon the morning breeze — his shield was 
gone, as were the mace and battle-axe which had swung from 
his saddle-bow — his sword, a long, cross-handled blade, and 
his lance, its azure pennoncelle no less than its steel head, 
crusted and black with blood, alone remained to him. The 
scabbard of his poignard was empty, and the silver hilt of his 
sword, ill-matched with the gilded sheath, showed plainly that 
it was not the weapon to which his hand was used. Yet still, 
though disarrayed, weary, and travel-spent, and worn with wo 
and watching, no eye could have looked on him without recog- 
nising in every trait, in every gesture, the undaunted knight 
and the accomplished noble. 

Hours had passed away, since, with the first gray twilight 
of the dawn he had come forth from the precarious hiding-place 
wherein he had spent a terrible and painful night ; and so far 
he had seen no human form, living at least, and heard no hu- 
man voice ! Unimpaired, save by the faintness of his reeling 
charger, he had ridden six long leagues over the perilous and 
rugged path by which, late on the previous night, the bravest 
of the brave, Alonzo de Aguilar, had by hard dint of hoof and 
spur escaped from the wild infantry of El Zagal to the far walls 
of Antiquera ; and now from a bold and projecting summit he 
looked down upon the ramparts of that city, across a rich and 
level plain, into which sloped abruptly the steep ridge on which 
he stood, at less than a league's distance. Here, for the first 
time, since he had set forth on his toilsome route, the knight 

18 



410 THE MOORISH FATHER. 

drew up his staggering horse — for the first time a gleam of 
hope irradiating his wan brow — and, as a pious cavalier is 
ever bound to do, stretched forth his gauntleted hands to 
Heaven, and in a low, deep murmur breathed forth his heartfelt 
thanksgivings to Him, who had preserved him from the clutches 
of .the pitiless heathen. This duty finished, with a lighter 
heart he wheeled his charger round an abrupt angle of the 
limestone-rock, and, plunging into the shade of the dense cork- 
woods which clothed the whole descent, followed the steep 
and zigzag path, by which he hoped ere long to reach his 
friends in safety. His horse, too, which had staggered wearily 
and stumbled often, as he ascended the rude hills, seemed to 
have gained new courage ; for as he turned the corner of the 
rock, he pricked his ears and snorted, and the next moment 
uttered a long, tremulous, shrill neigh, quickening his pace — 
which for the last two hours he had hardly done at the solici- 
tation of the spur — into a brisk and lively canter. Before, 
however, his rider had found time to debate upon the cause of 
this fresh vigor, the neigh was answered from below by the 
sharp whinny of a war-horse, which was succeeded instantly 
by the clatter of several hoofs, and the long barbaric blast of a 
Moorish horn. The first impulse of the cavalier was to quit 
the beaten path, and dashing into the thickets to conceal him- 
self until his foemen should have passed by. Prudent, how- 
ever, as was his determination, and promptly as he turned to 
execute it, he was anticipated by the appearance of at least 
half a score of Moorish horsemen — who, sitting erect in their 
deep Turkish saddles, goring the sides of their slight Arabian 
coursers with the edges of their broad sharp stirrups, and bran- 
dishing their long assagays above their heads, dashed forward 
with their loud ringing Lelilies, to charge the solitary Span- 
iard. Faint as he was, and in ill-plight for battle, there need- 
ed but the sight of the heathen foe to send each drop of his 



THE EMIR. 411 

Castilian blood eddying in hot currents through every vein of 
the brave Spaniard. " St. Jago !" he cried, in clear and mu- 
sical tones, " St. Jago and God aid !" and with the word he 
laid his long lance in the rest, and spurred his charger to the 
shock. It was not, however, either the usual mode of warfare 
with the Moors, or their intent at present to meet the shock of 
the impetuous and heavily armed cavalier. One of their num- 
ber, it is true, dashed out as if to meet him — a spare gray- 
headed man, whose years, although they had worn away the 
soundness, and destroyed the muscular symmetry of his frame, 
had spared the lithe and wiry sinews ; had dried up all that 
was superfluous of his flesh, and withered all that was comely 
of his aspect ; but had left him erect, and strong and hardy as 
in his youngest days of warfare. His dress, caftan and turban 
both, were of that dark-green hue, which bespoke an emir, or 
lineal descendant of the prophet. — the only order of nobility 
acknowledged by the Moslemin — while the rich materials of 
which they were composed, the jewels which bedecked the 
hilt and scabbard of both cimeter and yatagan, the necklaces of 
gold which encircled the broad glossy chest of his high-blooded 
black Arabian, proved as unerringly his wealth and consequence. 
Forth he dashed then, with the national war-cry, " La illah 
allah la!" brandishing in his right hand the long, light javelin, 
grasped by the middle, which his countrymen were wont to 
hurl against their adversaries, with such unerring accuracy 
both" of hand and eye ; and swinging on his left arm a light round 
buckler, of the tough hide of the African buffalo, studded with 
knobs of silver; while with his long reins flying as it would 
seem quite loose, by aid of his sharp Moorish curb, he wheeled 
his fiery horse from side to side so rapidly as quite to balk 
the aim of the Spaniard's level lance. As the old mussulman 
advanced, fearlessly as it seemed, against the Christian knight, 
his comrades galloped on abreast with him, but by no means 



412 THE MOORISH FATHER.' 

with the same steadiness of purpose, the track was indeed so 
narrow that three could hardly ride abreast in it; yet narrow as 
it was, the nearest followers of the emir did not attempt to 
keep it ; on the contrary, giving their w T ild coursers the sharp 
edge of their stirrups, they leaped and bolted from one side to 
the other of the path now plunging into the open wood on either 
hand, and dashing furiously over rock and stone, now pressing 
straightforward for perhaps a hundred yards as if to bear down 
bodily on their antagonist. All this, it must be understood, 
passed in less time than it has taken to describe it ; for though 
the enemies, when first their eyes caught sight of one another, 
were some five hundred yards apart, the speed of their fleet 
horses brought them rapidly to close quarters. And now they 
were upon the very point of meeting — the Spaniard bowing 
his unhelmed head behind his charger's neck, to shield as best 
he might that vital part from the thrust of the flashing assagay 
with his lance projecting ten feet at the least, before the cham- 
front which protected the brow of his barbed war-horse, and 
the sheath of his twohanded broadsword clanging and rattling 
at every bound of the horse against the steel-plates which pro- 
tected the legs of the man-at-arms! — the Moor sitting erect, 
nay, almost standing up in his short stirrups, with his keen, black 
eye glancing from beneath the shadow of his turban, and his 
spear poised and quivering on high. Now they were scarce a 
horse's length asunder, when, with a shrill, peculiar yell, the 
old Moor wheeled his horse out of the road, and dashed 'into 
the wood, his balked antagonist being borne aimlessly right 
onward into the little knot of men who followed on the emir's 
track. Not far, however, was he borne onward ; for, with a 
second yell, even shriller than before, the moslem curbed his 
Arab, till he stood bolt upright, and turning sharp round, with 
with such velocity that he seemed actually to whirl about as if 
upon a pivot, darted back on him, and with the speed of light 



THE DESPERATE ENCOUNTER. 413 

hurled the long assagay. Just at that point of time the lance 
point of the Spaniard was within a hand's breadth of the buckler 
— frail guard to the breast — of the second of those eastern 
warriors, but it was never doomed to pierce it. The light reed 
hurtled through the air, and its keen head of steel, hurled with 
most accurate aim, found a joint in the barbings of the war- 
horse. Exactly in that open and unguarded spot, which inter- 
venes between the hip-bone and the ribs, it entered — it drove 
through the bright and glistening hide, through muscle, brawn, 
and sinew — clear through the vitals of the tortured brute, and 
even — with such tremendous vigor was it sent from that old 
arm — through the ribs on the farther side. With an appalling 
shriek, the agonized animal sprung up, with all his feet into 
the air, six feet at least in height, then plunged head foremost! 
Yet, strange to say, such was the masterly and splendid horse- 
manship, such was the cool steadiness of the European war- 
rior, that, as his charger fell, rolling over and over, writhing 
and kicking in the fierce death-struggle, he alighted firmly and 
fairly on his feet. Without a second's interval, for he had cast 
his heavy lance far from him, while his steed was yet in air, 
he whirled his long sword from its scabbard, and struck with 
the full sweep of his practised arm at the nearest of the Sara- 
cens, who were now wheeling round him, circling and yelling 
like a flock of sea-fowl. Full on the neck of a delicate and 
fine-limbed Arab, just at the juncture of the spine and skull, did 
the sheer blow take place ; and cleaving the vertebrae asunder, 
and half the thickness of the muscular flesh below them, hurled 
the horse lifeless, and the rider stunned and senseless to the 
earth at his feet. A second sweep of the same ponderous blade 
brought down a second warrior, with his right arm half-severed 
from his body; a third time it was raised ; but ere it fell, another 
javelin, launched by the same aged hand, whizzed through the 
air, and look effect a little way below the elbow-joint, just 



414 THE MOORISH FATHER. 

where the brassard and the gauntlet met, the trenchant-point 
pierced through between the bones, narrowly missing the great 
artery, and the uplifted sword sunk harmless ! A dull expres- 
sion of despair settled at once over the bright expressive fea- 
tures, which had so lately been enkindled by the fierce ardor 
and excitement of the conflict. His left hand dropped, as it 
were instinctively, to the place where it should have found the 
hilt of his dagger ; but the sheath was empty, and the proud 
warrior stood, with his right arm dropping to his side, trans- 
fixed by the long lance, and streaming with dark blood, glaring, 
in impotent defiance, upon his now triumphant enemies. The 
nature of the Moorish tribes had been, it should be here ob- 
served, very materially altered, since they had crossed the 
straits ; they were no longer the cruel, pitiless invaders offering 
no option to the vanquished, but of the Koran or the cimeter ; 
but, softened by intercourse with the Christians, and having 
imbibed, during the lapse of ages spent in continual warfare 
against the most gallant and accomplished cavaliers of Europe, 
much of the true spirit of chivalry, they had adopted many of 
the best points of that singular institution. Among the princi- 
pal results of this alteration in the national character w r as this 
— that they now no longer ruthlessly slaughtered unresisting 
foes, but, affecting to be guided by the principles of knightly 
courtesy, held all to mercy who were willing to confess them- 
selves overcome. When, therefore, it was evident that any 
farther resistance was out of the question, the old emir leap- 
ing down from his charger's back, with all the agility of a boy, 
unsheathed his Damascus cimeter, a narrow, crooked blade, 
with a hilt elaborately carved and jewelled, and strode slowly 
up to face the wounded Christian. 

" Yield thee," he said, in calm and almost courteous tones — 
using the lingua Franca, or mixed tongue, half Arabic, half 
Spanish, which formed the ordinary medium of communication 



THE SURRENDER. 415 

between the two discordant races which at that time occupied 
the great peninsula of Europe — "yield thee, sir knight! thou 
art sore wounded, and enough hast thou done already, and 
enough suffered, to entitle thee to all praise of valor, to all 
privilege of courtesy." 

" To whom must I yield me, emir ?" queried the Christian, 
in reply ; " to whom must 1 yield ? since yield I needs must ; 
for, as you truly say, I can indeed resist no longer. I pray 
thee, of thy courtesy, inform me ?" 

" To me — Muley Abdallah el Zagal !" 

" Nor unto nobler chief or braver warrior could any cavalier 
surrender. Therefore, I yield myself true captive, rescue or 
no rescue !" and as he spoke he handed the long silver-hilted 
sword, which he had so well wielded, to his captor. But the 
old Moor put aside the proffered weapon. " Wear it," he said, 
" wear it, sir, your pledged word suffices that you will not un- 
sheath it. Shame were it to deprive so good a cavalier of the 
sword he hath used so gallantly ! But lo ! your wound bleeds 
grievously. I pray you sit, and let your hurt be tended — Ho ! 
Hamet, Hassan, lend a hand here to unarm this good gentle- 
man. I pray you, sir, inform me of your style and title." 

" I am styled Roderigo de Narvaez," returned the cavalier, 
" equerry and banner-bearer to the most noble Don Diego de 
Cordova, the famous count of Cabra !" 

" Then be assured, Don Roderigo, of being, at my hands, 
entreated with all due courtesy and honor — till that the good 
count shall arrange for thy ransom or exchange." 

A little while sufficed to draw off the gauntlet, to cut the 
shaft of the lance, where the steel protruded entirely through 
the wounded arm, and to draw it out by main force from be- 
tween the bones, which it had actually strained asunder. But 
so great was the violence which it was necessary to exert, and 
so great was the suffering which it caused, that the stout war- 



416 THE MOORISH FATHER. 

rior actually swooned away ; nor did he altogether recover his 
senses, although every possible means at that time known were 
applied for his restoration, until the blood had been stanched, 
and a rude, temporary litter, framed of lances bound together 
by the scarfs and baldrics of the emir's retinue, and strewn 
with war-cloaks was prepared for him. Just as this slender 
vehicle was perfected and slung between the saddles of four 
warriors, the color returned to the pallid lips and cheeks of the 
brave Spaniard, and gradually animation was restored. In the 
meantime, the escort of El Zagal had been increased by the 
arrival of many bands of >teel-clad warriors, returning from the 
pursuit of the routed Spaniards ; until at length a grand host 
was collected, comprising several thousands of soldiery, of 
every species of force at that time in use — cavalry, archers, 
infantry, arrayed beneath hundreds of many colored banners, 
and marching gayly on to the blithe music of war-drum, atabal, 
and clarion. The direction of the route taken by this martial 
company was the same wild, desolate, and toilsome road, by 
which Don Roderigo had so nearly escaped that morning. All 
day long did they march beneath a burning sun and cloudless 
sky, the fierce heat insupportably reflected from the white 
limestone crags, and sandy surface of the roads ; and so tremen- 
dous were its effects, that many of the horses and mules, laden 
with baggage, which accompanied the cavalcade, died on the 
wayside ; while the wounded captive, between anxiety and 
pain, and the incessant jolting of the litter, was in a state of 
fever bordering nearly on delirium, during the whole of the 
long march. 

At length, just when the sun was setting, and the soft dews 
of evening were falling silently on the parched and scanty herb- 
age, the train of El Zagal reached the foot of a rugged and pre- 
cipitous hill, crowned by a lofty watch-tower. Ordering his 
troops to bivouac as best they might, at the base of the steep 



the emir's daughter. 417 

acclivity, the old Moor spurred up its side with his immediate 
train and his enfeebled captive. Just as he reached the brow 
the gates flew open, and the loveliest girl that ever met a sire's 
embrace, rushed forth with her attendants — the sternness 
melted from the old warrior's brow, as he clasped her to his 
bosom, before he entered the dark portal. Within that mount- 
ain fortalice long lay the Christian warrior, struggling midway 
between the gates of life and death ; and when at length he 
awoke from his appalling dreams, strange visions of dark eyes 
compassionately beaming upon his, soft hands that tended his 
worn limbs, and shapes angelically graceful floating about his 
pillow, were blent with the dark recollections of his hot delir- 
ium, and that too so distinctly, that he long doubted whether 
these too were the creations of his fevered fancy. Well had 
it been for him, well for one lovelier and frailer being, had they 
indeed been dreams ; but who shall struggle against his des- 
tiny ! 

Hours, days, and weeks, rolled onward ; and, as they fled, 
brought health and vigor to the body of the wounded knight ; 
but brought no restoration to his overwrought and excited mind. 
The war still raged in ruthless and unsparing fury, between the 
politic and crafty Ferdinand, backed by the chivalry of the most 
puissant realm of Europe, and the ill-fated Moorish prince, who, 
last and least of a proud race, survived to weep the downfall of 
that lovely kingdom which he had lacked the energy to govern 
or defend. Field after field was fought, and foray followed 
foray, till every streamlet of Grenada had been empurpled by 
the mingled streams of Saracen and Christian gore, till every 
plain and valley had teemed with that rank verdure, which be- 
trays a soil watered by human blood. So constant was the 
strife, so general the havoc, so wide the desolation, that those 
who fell were scarcely mourned by their surviving comrades, 
forgotten almost ere the life had left them. Hardly a family in 

18* 



418 THE MOORISH FATHER. 

Spain but had lost sire, son, husband, brother ; and so fast came 
the tidings in, of slaughter and of death, that the ear scarce 
could drink one tale of sorrow, before another banished it. 
And thus it was with Roderigo de Narvaez. For a brief space, 
indeed, after the fatal day of Axarquia, his name had been syl- 
labled by those who had escaped from the dread slaughter, 
with those of others as illustrious in birth, as famous in renown, 
and as unfortunate, for all believed that he had fallen in the ca- 
tastrophe of their career. For a brief space his name had 
swelled the charging cry of Antiquera's chivalry, when thirst- 
ing for revenge, and all on fire to retrieve their tarnished lau- 
rels, they burst upon their dark-complexioned foemen. A brief 
space, and he was forgotten ! His death avenged by tenfold 
slaughter — his soul redeemed by many a midnight mass — his 
virtues celebrated, and his name recorded, even while yet he 
lived, on the sepulchral marble, and the bold banner-bearer 
was even as though he had never been. Alone, alone in the 
small mountain tower, he passed his weary days, his long and 
woful nights. Ever alone ! He gazed forth from the lofty 
lattices over the bare and sun-scourged summits of the wild 
crags of Malaga, and sighed for the fair huertas, the rich vine- 
yards, and the shadowy olives of his dear native province. He 
listened to the clank of harness, to the wild summons of the 
Moorish horn, to the thick-beating clatter of the hoofs, as with 
his fiery hordes old Muley el Zagal swooped like some bird of 
rapine from his far mountain eyry on the rich booty of the vales 
below ; but he saw not, marked not, at least, the gorgeousness 
and pomp of their array ; for, when he would have looked forth 
on their merry mustering, his heart would swell within him as 
though it would have burst from his proud bosom — his eyes 
would dazzle and grow dim, filled with unbidden tears, that his 
manhood vainly strove to check — his ears would be heavy 
with a sound, as it were of many falling waters. Thus, hour 



captivity's weary hours. 419 

by hour, the heavy days lagged on, and though the flesh of the 
imprisoned knight waxed stronger still and stronger, the spirit 
daily flagged and faltered. The fierce old emir noted the 
yielding of his captive soul, noted the dimness of the eye, the 
absence of the high and sparkling fire, that had so won his ad- 
miration on their first encounter ; he noted, and to do him jus- 
tice, noted it with compassion ; and ever, when he sallied forth 
to battle, determined that he would grasp the earliest opportu- 
nity, afforded by the capture of any one of his own stout adhe- 
rents, to ransom or exchange his prisoner. But, as at times, 
things will fall out perversely, and, as it were, directly con- 
trary to their accustomed course ; though he lost many by the 
lance, the harquebus, the sword, no man of his brave followers 
was taken ; nay more, so rancorous and savage had the war 
latterly become, that Moor and Spaniard now, where'er they 
met, charged instantly — with neither word nor parley — and 
fought it out with murderous fury, till one or both had fallen. 
And thus it chanced, that, while his friends esteemed him 
dead, and dropped him quietly into oblivion, and his more gen- 
erous captor would, had he possessed the power, have sent 
him forth to liberty on easy terms of ransom, fate kept him still 
in thrall. 

After a while, there came a change in his demeanor ; the 
head no longer was propped listlessly from morn to noon, from 
noon " to dewy eve," upon his burning hand ; the cheek re- 
gained its hue, the eye its quick clear glance, keen and perva- 
ding as the falcon's ; the features beamed with their old energy 
of pride and valiant resolution ; his movements were elastic, 
his step free and bold, his head erect and fearless ; and the old 
Moor observed the change, and watched, if he perchance 
might fathom the mysterious cause, and queried of his menials; 
and yet remained long, very long, in darkness and in doubt. 

And what was that mysterious cause, that sudden overmas- 



420 THE MOORISH FATHER. 

tering power, that spell, potent as the magician's charm, which 
weaned the prisoner from its melancholy yearnings ; which 
kindled his eye once again with its old fire ; which roused him 
from his oblivious stupor, and made him bear himself once 
more, not as the tame heart-broken captive, but as the free, 
bold, dauntless, energetic champion ; clothed as in arms of 
proof, in the complete, invulnerable panoply of a soul; proud, 
active, and enthusiastic, and, at a moment's notice, prepared 
for every fortune ? What should it be but love — the tamer of 
the proud and strong — the strengthener of the weak and timid 
— the tyrant of all minds — the change of all natures — what 
should it be but love ? 

The half-remembered images of his delirium — the strong 
and palpable impressions, which had so wildly floated among 
his feverish dreams, had been clothed with reality — the form, 
which he had viewed so often through the half-shut lids of 
agony and sickness, had stood revealed in the perfection of 
substantial beauty before his waking eyesight ; the soft voice, 
which had soothed his anguish, had answered his in audible 
and actual converse. In truth, that form, that voice, those lin- 
eaments, were all-sufficient to have spell-bound the sternest and 
the coldest heart, that ever manned itself against the fascina- 
tions of the sex. Framed in the slightest and most sylph-like 
mould, yet of proportions exquisitely true, of symmetry most 
rare, of roundness most voluptuous, of grace unrivalled, Zelica 
was in sooth a creature, formed not so much for mortal love as 
for ideal adoration. Her coal-black hair, profuse almost unto 
redundancy, waving in natural ringlets, glossy and soft as silk 
— her wild, full, liquid eyes, now blazing with intolerable lus- 
tre, now melting into the veriest luxury of languor ; her high, 
pale, intellectual brow ; her delicately-chiselled lineaments, the 
perfect arch of her small ruby mouth, and, above all, the fleet 
and changeful gleams of soul that would flit over that rare face 



THE STOLEN INTERVIEW. 421 

— the flash of intellect, bright and pervading as the prophet's 
glance of inspiration ; the sweet, soft, dream-like melancholy, 
half lustre and half shadow, like the transparent twilight of 
her own lovely skies ; the beaming, soul-entrancing smiles, 
that laughed out from the eyes before they curled the ever- 
dimpling lips — these were the spells that roused the Christian 
captive from his dark lethargy of wo. 

A first chance interview in the small garden of the fortress 

— for in the smallest and most iron fastnesses of the Moors of 
Spain, the decoration of a garden, with its dark cypresses, its 
orange-bowers, its marble fountains, and arabesque kiosk among 
its group of fan-like palms, imported with great care and cost 
from their far native sands, was never lacking — a first chance 
interview, wherein the Moorish maiden, bashful at being seen 
beyond the precincts of the harem unveiled, and that too by a 
giaour, was all tears, flutter, and dismay ; while the enamored 
Spaniard — enamored at first sight, and recognising in the fair, 
trembling shape before him the ministering angel who had 
smoothed his feverish pillow, and flitted round his bed during 
those hours of dark and dread delirium — poured forth his 
gratitude, his love, his admiration, in a rich flood of soul- 
fraught and resistless eloquence : a first chance interview led 
by degrees, and after interchange of flowery tokens, and wa- 
vings of white kerchiefs by hands whiter yet, from latticed 
casements, and all those thousand nothings, which, impercep- 
tible and nothing worth to the dull world, are to the lover con- 
firmations strong as proofs of Holy Writ, to frequent meetings 
—meetings sweeter that they were stolen, fonder that they 
were brief, during the fierce heat of the noontide, when all 
beside were buried in the soft siesta, or by the pale light of 
the amorous moon, when every eye that might have spied out 
their clandestine interviews was sealed in deepest slumber. 

Hours, days, and weeks, rolled onward, and still the Span- 



422 THE MOORISH FATHER. 

ish cavalier remained a double captive in the lone tower of El 
Zagal. Captive in spirit, yet more than in the body — for, 
having spent the whole of his gay youth, the whole of his 
young, fiery manhood, in the midst of courts and cities ; having 
from early boyhood basked in the smiles of beauty, endured 
unharmed the ordeal of most familiar intercourse with the most 
lovely maids and matrons of old Spain, and borne away a 
heart untouched by any passion, by any fancy, how transient 
or how brief soever ; and having, at that period of his life 
when man's passions are perhaps the strongest, and surely the 
most permanent, surrendered almost at first sight his affections 
to this wild Moorish maiden — it seemed as if he voluntarily 
devoted his whole energies of soul and body to this one pas- 
sion ; as if he purposely lay by all other wishes, hopes, pur- 
suits ; as if he made himself designedly a slave, a blinded 
worshipper. 

It was, indeed, a singular, a wondrous subject for the con- 
templation of philosophy, to see the keen, cool, polished cour- 
tier, the warrior of a hundred battles, the cavalier of the most 
glowing courts, the bland, sagacious, wily, and perhaps cold- 
hearted citizen of the great world, bowing a willing slave, 
surrendering his very privilege of thought and action, to a mere 
girl, artless, and frank, and inexperienced ; devoid, as it would 
seem, of every charm that, could have wrought upon a spirit 
such as his ; skilled in no art, possessing no accomplishment, 
whereby to win the field against the deep sagacity, the wily 
worldly-he artedness of him whom she had conquered almost 
without a struggle. And yet this very artlessness it was 
which first enchained him ; this very free, clear candor, which, 
as a thing he never had before encountered, set all his art at 
nothing. 

Happily fled the winged days in this sweet dream ; until at 
length the Spaniard woke — woke to envisage his position ; to 



THE PROJECTED FLIGHT. 423 

take deep thought as to his future conduct ; to ponder, to re- 
solve, to execute. It needed not much of the deep knowledge 
of the world for which, above all else, Roderigo was so famous, 
to see that under no contingency would the old Moor — the 
fiercest foeman of Spain's chivalry, the bitterest hater of the 
very name of Spaniard — consent to such a union. It needed 
even less to teach him that, so thoroughly had he enchained 
the heart, the fancy, the affections of the young Zelica, that 
for him she would willingly resign, not the home only, and the 
country, and the creed of her forefathers, but name and fame, 
and life itself, if such a sacrifice were called for. Fervently, 
passionately did the young Spaniard love — honestly too, and 
in all honor ; nor would he, to have gained an empire, have 
wronged that innocent, confiding, artless being, who had set all 
the confidence of a young heart, which, guileless in itself, 
feared naught of guile from others, upon the faith and honor of 
her lover. At a glance he perceived that their only chance 
was flight. A few soft moments of persuasion prevailed with 
the fair girl ; nor was it long ere opportunity, and bribery, and 
the quick wit of Roderigo, wrought on the avarice of one, the 
trustiest of old Muley's followers, to plan for them an exit from 
the guarded walls, to furnish them with horses and a guide, 
the very first time the old emir should go forth to battle. 

Not long had they to wait. As the month waned, and the 
nights grew dark and moonless, the note of preparation once 
again was heard in hall, and armory, and stable. Harness was 
buckled on, war-steeds were barbed for battle, and, for a foray 
destined to last three weeks, forth sallied El Zagal. 

Three days they waited, waited in wild suspense, in order 
that the host might have advanced so far, that they should risk 
no interruption from the stragglers of the rear. The destined 
day arrived, and slowly, one by one, the weary hours lagged 
on. At last — at last — the skies are darkened, and Lucifer, 



424 THE MOORISH FATHER. 

love's harbinger, is twinkling in the west. Three saddled 
barbs, of the best blood of Araby, stand in a gloomy dingle, 
about a bow -shot from the castle-walls, tended by one dark, 
turbaned servitor. Evening has passed, and midnight, dark, 
silent, and serene, broods o'er the sleeping world. Two figures 
steal down from the postern gate : one a tall, stately form, 
sheathed cap-a-pie in European panoply ; the other a slight 
female figure, veiled closely, and bedecked with the rich, flow- 
ing draperies that form the costume of all oriental nations. 
'T is Roderigo and Zelica. Now they have reached the horses ; 
the cavalier has raised the damsel to her saddle, has vaulted to 
his demipique. Stealthily for a hundred yards they creep 
away at a foot's pace, till they have gained the greensward, 
whence no loud clank will bruit abroad their progress. Now 
they give free head to their steeds — they spur, they gallop! 
Ha ! whence that wild and pealing yell — " La illah, allah la !" 
On every side it rings — on every side — and from bush, brake, 
and thicket, on every side, up spring turban, and assagay, and 
cimeter — all the wild cavalry of El Zagal! 

Resistance was vain ; but, ere resistance could be offered, 
up strode the veteran emir. " This, then," he said, in tones 
of bitter scorn, "this is a Christian's gratitude — a Spaniard's 
honor! — to bring disgrace — " 

" No, sir !" thundered the Spaniard, " no disgrace ! A Chris- 
tian cavalier disgraces not the noblest demoiselle or dame by 
offer of his hand !" 

" His hand V again the old Moor interrupted him ; " his 
hand — wouldst thou then marry — " 

" Had we reached Antiquera's walls this night, to-morrow's 
dawn had seen Zelica the all-honored bride of Roderigo de 
Narvaez !" 

" Ha ! is it so, fair sir ?" replied the father ; " and thou, I 
trow, young mistress, thou too art nothing loath ?" and taking 



THE NUPTIAL CHALICE. 425 

her embarrassed silence for assent — " be it so !" he continued, 
"be it so! deep will we feast to-night, and with to-morrow's 
dawn Zelica shall be the bride of Roderigo de Narvaez !" 

Astonishment rendered the Spaniard mute, but ere long 
gratitude found words, and they returned gay, joyous, and su- 
premely happy, to the lone fortress. 

There, in the vaulted hall, the board was set, the feast was 
spread, the red wine flowed profusely, the old Moor on his 
seat of state, and right and left of him that fair young couple ; 
and music flowed from unseen minstrels' harps, and perfumes 
steamed the hall with their rich incense, and lights blazed high, 
and garlands glittered : but blithe as were all appliances, naught 
was so blithe or joyous as those young, happy hearts. 

The feast was ended ; and Abdallah rose, and filled a goblet 
to the brim — a mighty goblet, golden and richly gemmed — 
with the rare wine of Shiraz. " Drink," he said, " Christian, 
after your country's fashion — drink to your bride, and let her 
too assist in draining this your nuptial chalice." 

Roderigo seized the cup, and with a lightsome smile drank 
to his lovely bride — and deeply he quaffed, and passed it to 
Zelica ; and she, too, pleased with the ominous pledge, drank 
as she ne'er had drank before, as never did she drink there- 
after ! 

The goblet was drained, drained to the very dregs ; and, 
with a fiendish sneer, Muley Abdallah uprose once again. 

" Christian, I said to-morrow's dawn should see Zelica Rod- 
erigo's bride, and it shall — in the grave! To prayer — to 
prayer ! if prayer may now avail ye ! Lo ! your last cup on 
earth is drained ; your lives are forfeit — nay, they are gone 
already !" 

Why dwell upon the hateful scene — the agony, the anguish, 
the despair ? For one short hour, in all the extremities of 
torture, that hapless pair writhed, wretchedly convulsed, before 



426 THE MOORISH FATHER. 

the gloating eyes of the stem murderer ! Repressing each all 
outward symptoms of the tortures they endured, lest they 
should add to the dread torments of the other -r- not a sigh, not 
a groan, not a reproach was heard ! Locked in each other's 
arms, they wrestled to the last with the dread venom ; locked 
in each other's arms, w T hen the last moment came, they lay 
together on the cold floor of snowy marble — unhappy vic- 
tims, fearful monuments of the dread vengeance of a Moorish 
father ! 



THE END. 




? 



s 







A ^ 






A* 















^ 



V. 




<w* 



**v 



G* 



? ^ Deacidified using the BooKkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date MAY 2002 

PreservationTechnologies 

Vy, \° <- A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION 

1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16056 
(724)779-2111 





■ti ■ v *> ^ 




